A Village Life
by Mechabeira
Summary: "You don't quit family." He kissed her cheek. "Goodnight." A sequel to "Foundling." AU (T/Z)
1. A Simple Life

__**And we're into a new arc, folks, because the end of the last one was just the tip of the iceberg. Thanks for all your kindness and love and reviews and general badassery. Thanks. Be careful out there.**

_I dreamed you first, but not so real._

_ And every day since I found you, such moments we steal._

_ Like little fiends, we rub our hands,_

_ hold our hearts between us._

_ -The Weepies, "Simple Life."_

The crickets took up their symphony-Wagner by amateurs, it seemed, based on the missed notes and screeching bows. Gibbs scratched the last of the burned-on grease from the grill and Tony stuck his head out the screen door.

"Boss," he called, the larger half of a chocolate pastry wadded in his cheek. "C'm'ere. You gotta see this."

He threw the brush down and stepped into the kitchen, where Ziva was swaying in the glow of the under-counter lights, lazily scooping leftovers into plastic storage containers. She smiled at him and pointed her spoon to the living room.

Tony fairly danced in delight. He held a finger to his full mouth and pointed at Sara, who'd fallen asleep in transit. She was doubled at the hinges, arms sprawled, half on the sofa and still standing on the floor. Her head was beneath a pillow and the end of an ice cream cone was melting in her sticky hand.

"That has got to be the funniest thing I've ever seen," he whispered, still chewing. "I gotta take a picture of this."

"Get outta here, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled good-naturedly, but waited for him to snap a photo with his phone before reaching down to retrieve his baby.

She stirred when he picked her up. "Daddy?"

"Bedtime," he said quietly.

She lifted her head as the carried her up the stairs. "Had a busy day," she muttered, brushing tangles from her face. "Having a lot of treats."

He chuckled lowly. "You sure did, sweet pea. Did you have fun playing with everyone?" She'd been fawned over by party guests all day; they'd fed her entertained her, and gave her gifts. He and Abby took a thousand photos each.

"Yeah," she sighed.

He pushed open the door to her bedroom and had to step around a maze of new toys; it seemed that every guest had broken open their piggy banks to buy Gotcha gifts for Sara. She'd been given more animals than he could count, a dollhouse, a bicycle, a red wagon, and that was just what fit in her room. There was more in the living room _and_ dining room, some of them still wrapped in colorful paper.

He laid Sara on the bed while he rooted in the mess for clean pyjamas. She desperately needed a bath, but he'd never get her into the tub and out again without a tantrum; she was simply too tired. He reached blindly in to the bedtime drawer and tugged out a matched set.

"Elephants," she approved, thumb in her mouth. "Where is my farm, Daddy?"

"There." He pointed to the shelf.

"No," she whined. "My new one."

Jackson had run into heavy traffic and had missed the ceremony. Rather than fight more traffic to the courthouse, he'd gone ahead home, heated the grill, and laid out a brand new set of toys he'd made for Sara. It was a zoo, with colorful matching animals and a keeper in khaki, but Sara would only call it a _farm_ despite the number of times she'd been coached otherwise.

"It's downstairs. Ziva will keep it safe for you."

Sara was half-asleep again; putty in his hands. Pliable, yes. Also droopy and difficult to manage. He undressed and redressed her hastily and drew the covers up to her chin.

"Sleep tight, baby girl. Daddy loves you."

"Love you too," she whispered.

Ziva's containers were full and Jackson was ferrying them two at a time into the freezer. "Got enough in here for a platoon, Leroy. There's no way you and that baby will eat all this stuffed cabbage."

"The team will work on it. Tony will eat anything that isn't nailed down."

Jackson nodded. "Growing boy. He's mighty cozy with Ziva."

"Ask him about that, Dad, not me."

"I would, but he's got too many stars in his eyes to be able to look at me. How's she break that chicken wing, anyway?"

"Guy jumped her over by the school. We got 'em though."

"Poor kid." He dumped a cold cup of coffee down the drain, washed the mug, and put it upside-down in the dishrack. "She doin' ok? Looks a little peaky around the eyes."

Gibbs helped himself to a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes. "If she's not, she will be."

Jackson unbuttoned his cuffs. "You still got that cot in the basement, Leroy?"

"Dad, you don't have to sleep down there. I'll have Tony take Ziva home."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Son, I slept on harder things this week alone. Had to spend the night in the store Tuesday and Wednesday."

Gibbs shook his head and licked his fork. "Shouldn't be doing that, Dad."

"That's what I get for not installing an alarm system. Goodnight, Leroy. You should get to bed. That baby will be getting you up early."

He trudged upstairs dutifully. Ziva met him in the hallway, blinking and swaying.

"What's up, Ziver?" He asked gently. "Tired?"

"I think I have to sleep here tonight, Gibbs," she whispered.

"That's fine. Pretty sure DiNozzo is asleep on the couch. Your toothbrush is still in the medicine cabinet."

She nodded, eyes wandering.

"What?" He fairly demanded.

She shook her head, rueful. "Nothing. I just wonder what would have happened if things had been…different."

"With Sara? Wouldn't happen."

"With me," she corrected quietly, eyes burning. "What if my father had not raised me? Did you know that he thought, briefly, about giving me to my mother's sister? He did not want daughters and she was barren. But then Tali stole his heart and I was part of the package. My mother insisted."

"I don't like your father," he replied honestly. "But if he hadn't raised you then you never would've ended up here. Our lives—_my_ life—would've been the worse for it." He tugged her into a tight hug and propped his chin on the top of her head. "You're just as much mine as Sara is, Ziver."

She wove her good arm under his and squeezed tightly; his breath hitched and hers quickened. "I called my therapist this afternoon," she said softly. "I will have a phone session with her at ten tomorrow."

"Abby and McGee are coming at eight to help with clean-up. I'll keep them busy so no one bothers you."

"It is fine. I do not think it will be a long meeting." She still hadn't let go of him. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt tightly, dug hard into the fabric.

"I'll have them mow and rake anyway. It's good for 'em."

She pulled back. "Perhaps I should go to sleep. I am quite tired, Gibbs, and it has been a very exciting day."

He guided her into the guest room with one arm still wrapped around her shoulder. "I'll tuck you in."

Even in the low light he could see her face go red. "That is unnecessary," she complained, but pulled Tony's Buckeyes sweatshirt over her head. She wore a t-shirt underneath.

"Humor me," he requested.

She slid under the blankets and he tucked the duvet around her, shifting a pillow beneath her broken arm and brushing her hair out of her face. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Hey," he whispered. "Listen to me, Ziver."

She looked at him sideways.

"No matter what," he said lowly, "you are going to be ok. You got a lot of people pulling for you, not just me and DiNozzo. There's a whole team that wants you to be healthy."

"I quit," she said, shrugging.

"You don't quit family, Ziver." He kissed her cheek. "Goodnight."

. . . .

Gibbs didn't think Abby was capable of sneaking, but she did so through his front door at seven forty-five the next morning, wearing a construction hat and carrying a roll of heavy-duty black trashbags.

"Morning," she chirped. "Reporting for duty."

He and Jackson at the dining room table with coffee and the newspaper. DiNozzo had the morning news on at low volume.

"Girls are still asleep," he cautioned.

She smiled and sat between them. "We partied hard yesterday. All that cake."

"Yeah, don't be surprised if Sara has a bellyache. I pried her fifth ice cream cone out of her hand at ten last night."

"Tony sent me a picture—asleep standing up! How funny was that?"

"Pretty cute," he conceded.

Tim sat a tray of coffees and his car keys on the table. "I got it, too. She's adorable. Did you make an appointment with the endocrinologist? I wonder what kind of growth issues she has. She could be diabetic or have an underproducing thyroid gland, or she could be lacking in human growth hormone…it could be anything, really. Maybe she has a food allergy or just a really bad case of Failure to Thrive."

Gibbs shrugged half at Tim and half at Jackson's blank expression. "We'll figure it out. The pediatrician didn't think she was in immediate danger. Appointment's in two weeks. Fastest they could get her in."

Tim nodded. "Specialists have tight schedules if the demand is high. Did she say to do anything in the mean time?"

"Switch her antibiotics. Killed the fever in a hurry."

He nodded. "She seems fine, despite the small stature. Might be her pituitary gland."

"Might be you cleaning up the backyard," Gibbs warned, ending the conversation. "Thanks for the coffee."

Tony stumbled in, brushing a hand over his head. "Godwin's case made the news. The defense attorney isn't even playing a bluff, Boss. He knows that ship is sinking."

Gibbs nodded, sipping. Morales and Nachshon stopped by during the party. They'd whispered in his ear that Godwin was headed for the maximum sentence then presented Sara with a red wagon loaded with gifts. Wagon rides around the yard were so much more exciting than the toys, and plenty of willing dray horses set down their drinks to pulled her up and down the sidewalk, onto the driveway, and even around the block. It probably accounted for the new tan lines he found on her shoulders. She, like Ziva, darkened easily.

_Speak of the devil_, he mused silently. Quiet footfall sounded on the stairs. Tony met her at the bottom and gave her a sneaky kiss.

"Well good morning, sweet chee—oh. Come, love. Sit down."

Gibbs and McGee stayed at the table, opting to let Tony get Ziva settled before bombarding her. Jackson raised his eyebrows and scratched a stubbly cheek. Tony was murmuring to her gently and they heard the recliner lean back.

"McGee, did you get her a tea?" He called.

Tim jumped out of his seat. "Yeah, here." He rushed into the living room, only to stop in his tracks. "Wow. Ziva, you ok?"

"I think so," she warbled. "I may have gotten Sara's beetle."

Gibbs waited for Tony to correct her and grew worried when he didn't. He made his way in and found both men standing over the recliner, where a very pale Ziva was curled on her left side. Her eyes were large, dark, and puffy. He laid the back of his hand on her fever-red cheek.

"You throw up?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly.

"How many times?"

"Three, so far. I feel…tossy."

"You're really hot. Dizzy?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

Tony stroked her hair. "We'll get you something to bring the fever down and maybe a few crackers to settle your stomach. Is tea ok, or should I get some ginger ale?"

"I will try tea. Thank you, Tim." She took the cup with a shaky hand, sipping experimentally. All three men watched with bated breath, but nothing happened and she sipped again. "I think I am ok," she said weakly.

"No heroics," Gibbs warned her, laying a blanket across her legs.

Tim backed away. "I'll head out back with Abby. I'm sure she's looking for me by now." He escaped out the open back door, grabbing his coffee on the way out then doubling back for the abandoned Caf-Pow on the kitchen table.

Jackson excused himself. "Hardware store's been open for an hour. I want to get that fence fixed before sundown, Leroy." He gave Tony a gentle elbow. "Take care of her, Sonny. She's a good girl."

"I'm on the case," he smirked, but there was respect in his eyes.

"Sara is not awake?" Ziva asked, still cradling her tea.

"Nope. She didn't get to bed until after ten. I'll get her up soon so she naps this afternoon. You still talking to the doc at ten?"

"Yes," she said quickly.

"_If_ you're up to it," Tony amended for her and ran a fingertip around the shell of her ear. "I knew this was going to happen. You were way too quiet yesterday."

"I was a little under the rain."

"Weather," Gibbs said automatically. "How's your arm?"

"Heavy," she admitted. "My hand is a bit swollen. That part of the cast feels tight."

Tony took her arm and pushed the padding away from her fingertips. "Yeah, we'll get you some ibuprofen to take that down, too. How about another sip of tea?"

She sipped and swallowed delicately. "May I have the medication now, please?"

"Yeah." Tony leaped up the stairs and they heard the pantry slam open, then Sara cried out, awakened.

"Daddy?" She called. "I'm all waked up now."

He gave Ziva's chin one last tweak and barreled up the stairs in Tony's fashion. "Hey, baby girl," he cooed, pushing the door open. "You slept for a long time."

"I was tired after the party. It was a busy day."

"Yeah. C'mon. Pee first and then breakfast. You've got to be starving."

Downstairs, she gasped at the sight of Ziva's pink cheeks and shaking hands. "Zeeba, you are being sick! Are you ok?"

"I am fine, _shaifeleh_. I think I got what you had. You should not worry, though, it will pass in a day or two."

"No," she said simply, thinking. "You will need anta…antee…um, bubblegum medicine. Then you will feel better. Daddy, can I have cheese like yesterday?"

"If you have eggs, too. And juice. When are you gonna fatten up, kiddo?"

Her hands went to the front of her brace. "Maybe you should take this off. It should helping, I think."

Gibbs shook his head and kissed her. "Nice try. No. Now let's get some food in you."

. . . .

The guest room door wasn't fully closed, so Abby pushed it open delicately and allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The shades were drawn; it was stuffy in the small room. Ziva was a lump under the covers, hiccupping and sniffling softly. The portable handset beeped off the hook.

"Ziva? Um, can I get you anything?"

She went unheeded.

"They sent me up to check on you. It's been a long time since you've had any medication so…"

Nothing. Only sniffling and hiccups.

Steeling herself, Abby sat on the bed closest to Ziva's folded legs and laid her hand on what seemed to be a shoulder. The fever-heat penetrated even the bedclothes.

"I think you need something more than ibuprofen," she said quietly. "You're really warm. Or maybe you're just hot from crying so hard. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Ziva swallowed and calmed herself just enough to speak. "Dr. Loeb wants to put me on medication."

Abby knew playing dumb would yield the most information. "For what?"

"She says I am depressed."

"I don't think she's wrong," she sighed compassionately. "Well, think of it like being sick. Would you take a prescribed antibiotic to fight an infection?"

Silence, then "Yes," softly.

"Well, your brain has a cold and you need to take something. All those chemicals are mixed around. You might not have enough of them, or their out of whack. If you take medication, then they'll even out eventually. Once they're even the doctor can wean you off." She took a breath. "I took them for a little while after Michael."

The sniffling stopped abruptly. "You did?"  
"Yeah," Abby sighed. "I had really bad nightmares after that, and I got headaches and I had a bad temper. The chemicals in my brain were crazy. So my doctor prescribed an SSRI to help."

"And it worked?"

"Well not by itself. I had to go to therapy, too."

Ziva shifted. "I go to therapy."

"You have to go every week. It's like an exercise program; you have to keep it up or it won't work."

"Oh. Dr. Loeb has called in a prescription for Escit…something."

"Escitalopram? It has few side effects. That's what I took. Worked like a charm."

"She said she would like me to start it tonight."

Abby nodded. "Should I send Tony to the pharmacy for you? He's almost done trimming."

Ziva rubbed her forehead. "I do not want to tell him. He will be disappointed in me."

Abby laid down and cuddled close, wrapping one long arm around her middle. "No way, Ziva. He'll be proud of you for listening to the doctor. You can't suffer forever; something's gotta give."

"I am sure he and Gibbs are tired of babysitting me."

"The only person in the family who needs a babysitter is Sara. You might need some coaching, but not babysitting."

She frowned. "Coaching?"

"You're maybe…not so great at taking care of yourself. I mean, those are things that you learn from the people around you. We can yell at you all we want, but unless we model the behavior you just won't do it."

Ziva felt too ill to be offended. "So we will have pill-hopping parties?"

"Pill-popping. And no. I don't take it anymore. But how about we just check in with each other once in a while? Maybe go out for dinner, just us?"

Ziva had never really had a girlfriend. There were other women in her IDF squadron, but none of them had ever forged much beyond casual friendship. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Good. I think I heard Tony downstairs. He'll probably want to see you. Should I tell him to come in?"

She hesitated, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. "Maybe you could speak with him first?"

Abby tightened her grip on Ziva. "Sure. I love a good mission. You want anything?"

"No, thank you. I think I shall stay here. I am tired."

"Well you cried for almost an hour. That'll wear anyone out." She kissed her cheek before standing and adjusting her Antsy Pants t-shirt. "Sleep tight, ok?"

"Ok," she replied softly, and closed her eyes.

Tony had his head in the refrigerator. "There's no creamed cheese in here. How can I eat celery without creamed cheese?"

"There's peanut butter in the pantry," she deadpanned. "Sara can show you how to make Ants on a Log."

He grinned. "Nope, she hates raisins. What's up? She ok?"

She shifted a little. "Maybe we should have a team meeting."

His heart fell. "Abby, if something is wrong you need to tell me right now."

"Nothing is _wrong_-wrong but we need to bring it in. I'll get Gibbs and Timmy."

Gibbs put Sara in the living room with her new animals and joined the crew at the dining room table. Sandwiches were passed around.

"So?" He asked. "Why the SitRep?"

Abby swallowed. "Ziva's therapist is putting her on an antidepressant starting this afternoon and she was really, really upset. I think she thinks she weak, or she thinks that _we'll_ think she's weak, but we need to come up with a plan to get her to stick to a regimen of meds and therapy."

Gibbs chewed thoughtfully. Tony dropped his sandwich and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "I'll see how she's doing. How upset we talking, Abbs?"

"Um…in-bed upset. Sara-after-a-nightmare upset. Hiccups-and-snot upset."

"And you left her crying like that?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Tony. I spent fifteen minutes talking her into taking meds, and another ten telling her we loved her. She doesn't have the best idea of what it means to have a family, does she?"

Gibbs calmed her with a hand on her back. "Not really, Abbs. Be gentle."

Sara toddled in, dragging a hand along the wall. "C'n'I have a sammich, too?"

Tony propped her in her own chair. "Sure, bug. You want turkey or beef?"

Gibbs decided for her. "Turkey, and pick the tomatoes off."

She pouted. "But I want them."

"Nope, they'll give you a bellyache."

"Fine," she grumbled.

Tim opened his tablet. "Did Ziva say what the doctor is putting her on?"

"An SSRI. Probably Escitalopram. It's pretty widely prescribed."

Tony stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth. "What time will her scrip be ready at the pharmacy?"

Abby blanched. "I think you should ask her. She's probably asleep right now, but maybe ask her when she wakes up."

"She's sick, Tony," Sara chimed. "She throwed up. I heard her go _blah_."

"Thanks, little bug. Can you draw her a picture to cheer her up? I saw someone got you a big box of art supplies."

She froze, eyes wide, and then dropped her gaze to her lap. "Um, no. I don't thinking that is a good idea."

Gibbs saw her change in mood and chose to ignore it until they were alone. "You're going down for a nap after lunch anyway, sweet pea. Finish your juice and we'll pick out a story."

"Ok," she said softly.

Tony put his plate in the sink. "I'll go up with you. I should probably check on Zi."

"You should," Gibbs agreed. "McGee, will you let us know what she'll be taking and what side effects to look out for? We'll come up with a plan."

"On it, Boss. I'll call the pharmacist I know and get back to you."

"Let's go, sweet pea."

She held her arms up, casting a shy look at Tony. "Giving Zeeba kisses, ok?"

He followed Gibbs up the stairs. "Sure thing, bug. Any special messages to deliver?"

She thought for a minute. "Take the pink medicine and don't cry. Throwing up in the bowl, not the floor. And you should pet her hair so she goes to sleep."

He laughed. "I'll do that. Goodnight, buglet."

Gibbs closed the bedroom door and tucked Sara beneath the blankets. "Why didn't you want to draw, sweet pea?"

She looked out the window. "I don't liking it, Daddy."

"How come?"

"'Cause it's…you can't seeing it."

"Can't see what?" He pulled the farmer book off the shelf. "Are we reading this?"

She nodded, curls tangling. "Yeah. You can't seeing what I draw. It's bad."

"I'm sure it's not, sweet pea. _In October of the year, he counts the potatoes dug from the brown field_…"

"It _is_ bad," she interrupted. "Because it's all inside and then it's out and it's so bad."

Gibbs put the book down. "I don't understand what you mean but I'm very sorry you are so upset about it. Can you tell me again?"

She wiped at her face, frustrated. "I don't know. It's bad when you draw because it's _bad things_."

A tiny lightbulb flickered on in his brain. "Have you drawn the bad things that happened to you in the past?"

"_Fosserkid_," she grunted. "_Stupid_." Her thumb traced an arc around her mouth. "Daddy?" She asked softly, starting into space. "Can you holding me?"

He threw the book down, not caring where it landed, and scooped her into his arms. She curled up and anchored her thumb in her mouth. "I'm always happy to hold you, baby girl. I love you."

She baby-sighed against his collar. "I love you too, Daddy."


	2. Big Strong Girl

**Wow, thanks. Forever. You're all too sweet to me. **

****_It's not 'now or never.'_

_It's not black and it's not white._

_Anything worth anything takes more than a few days_

_and a long, long night._

__-Deb Talan, "Big Strong Girl."

A low, rumbling voice woke Gibbs long before dawn. It pulsed through the bedroom wall, followed by shuffling and a soft _thud_. He slid out of bed, tugged on a t-shirt, and stumbled into the hallway, where he found Ziva slumped against the opposite wall, pale and slightly shaking. Her eyes were sunken, unfocused and the smell of sickness wafted out of the bathroom. Tony was crouched in front of her, holding a cold cloth to her cheek.

"SitRep."

"Ziva fell," Tony explained, worrying. "She's feeling lightheaded from throwing up for hours. Apparently wicked nausea is one of the side effects of the antidepressant. Add that to a stomach flu and that's why were on the floor at…three forty-four a.m."

Gibbs took in her sunken eyes and grey pallor. He pinched the skin on her forearm and nodded when it didn't bounce back. "She's dehydrated. You call Duck?"

Tony waved his phone. Ducky's number was still displayed on the screen. "On his way."

Gibbs knelt on the carpet. "Feel pretty lousy, huh?"

"Yes," she rasped, and closed her eyes.

Ducky came quickly, medical bag and fluids in hand. He took one look at Ziva and blanched. "It's very good that you called me, Anthony; otherwise, you'd be headed to the emergency department. You cannot be comfortable on the floor, my dear. Let us help you into bed."

Tony stood, joints popping. Gibbs drew Ziva up with him and she lolled against his chest, semi-conscious. Her arms felt thin, like a schoolgirl, and she burned like a furnace.

Ducky started an IV without her noticing. "I'm giving her fluids, electrolytes, and an strong anti-emetic. When was the last time she had any fever reducer, Anthony?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, but it's got to be out of her system by now."

Ducky nodded and loaded another syringe. "Well then she'll get a little to bring her temperature back down. Ziva, you are far too warm for my liking."

She blinked and nodded.

Gibbs stood back. "You think we should take her in anyway, Duck?"

"No, Jethro, this is only a virus and she'll be right as rain in a day or two. You know, I'm surprised Sara hasn't woken; she's quite attuned to the goings-on in this house."

"Couple of long days," he explained with a shrug.

Ducky turned back to Ziva, who was dozing. "She'll be increasingly more comfortable as the fluids and medication do their jobs. I'll stay until she can go an hour without vomiting. Go back to bed, Jethro. Anthony and I will be fine here."

Tony nodded confidently, so he shuffled back across the hall, stopping to peek in on Sara. She was sound asleep, limbs splayed, curls wild. Content, he pulled the door fully closed and went back into bed.

. . . .

He woke again to bright sunlight. Down the hall, Sara sung quietly about giraffes and flying kites and Abby's new blender. He swung open her bedroom door to find her still in bed, marching a turkey along the safety rail.

"Hi Daddy," she chirped. "You were so sleeping. I got some animals and Papa had to go home." He reached for her, but she stiffened, back arching. "No-no," she scolded. "M'sore."

"Sorry, sweet pea. Papa left?"

"Yeah, but he gave me a cookie for breakfast and juice and some poppins." She pointed to a family of penguins carved from walnut scrap; Jackson had found himself idle in the basement, obviously, and wanted a project.

"Oh, _penguins,_ Sar. Not poppins. Is anyone else up?"

She nodded, heaving herself upright. "Tony had to working. Zeeba is somewhere. Maybe downstairs. Dunno. She was being sick."

"She has your virus. C'mon, let's get some real breakfast."

She batted his hands away again. "No, M'sore. I want to staying in bed."

He frowned, worried. "It's a school day, sweet pea. Don't you want to go swing and play?"

She looked away, shy. "I maybe needing some medicine first, but I still like playing."

"I know. I'll get you something and you can have breakfast in bed as a special treat. Sound good?"

"Yeah," she agreed, reaching for an owl that tumbled among the bedclothes. "That sounds very good, Daddy."

He found Ziva in the Brazilian-style cotton hammock that Abby had strung between the trees. She'd dragged a blanket out with her, cocooned herself, and was dozing with the sun on her face. She woke with a sigh when he swept across the grass.

"Had to drag the whole damn living room with you, David?"

She blinked at him and smiled, sleepy. "It is a beautiful morning. Tony woke me when he left for work and I could not stay inside." She brushed her hair away from her eyes and he saw that the IV was still in her wrist, but capped.

"Duck worried you'll need more fluids?"

She scowled and picked at the tape. "Yes. Though I feel much better."

He set her swinging. "Good. I have to take Sar to HSC at nine. You want something to eat?"

Her face soured. "No, thank you, but maybe just something to drink. I finished my Gatorade." She pointed to an empty plastic bottle propped in the grass.

"No problem, Princess. I've got the village masseuse coming for you in an hour."

She rolled her eyes. "I can still kill you," she reminded him sweetly. "I do not need two hands to do it."

Gibbs was happy to hear some humor back in her voice. "Then you'll have to answer to my kid. You ready for those tantrums?"

"Go to your baby," she commanded. "She is hungry by now."

Sara was waiting for him with the head of a giraffe in her mouth. He teased it out and handed her a bowl of eggs and toast. "That's not quite breakfast," he said wryly. "But this is. Did the medicine work yet?"

"S'working slow. I don't want to be sore," she whined. "I hate sore." She stuck a forkful of eggs in her mouth while he brushed her hair and pulled it up in a ponytail.

"I don't like you to be sore, either. But you're still healing. It might take some time for you to feel a hundred percent. Which dress do you want to wear?"

She shrugged, chewing the crust of her toast. "Dunno. But I want my crazy legs."

Abby had given her a pair of legwarmers with a Fair Isle pattern done in bright shades of red and purple. Sara loved them—declared them _crazy legs_ and insisted upon pairing them with everything, including an orange-striped tunic and a green sweater.

"How about purple, then?"

"Just crazy legs, Daddy. Good eggs today. Did you making them?"

"Yeah, Ziva's resting in the hammock. She'll be here when we get home." He took the fork so he could pull her dress over her head. "Dr. Goldman wants to see you. She wants to talk about how you're mine forever now."

Sara grinned and ate another bite of toast. "I know. I needing to show her my new poppins."

"Penguins," he corrected gently.

She shrugged again. "Papa said I could calling them whatever I want."

. . . .

Dr. Goldman reached for Sara as soon as Gibbs carried her into the office. "Mazel tov, Sara Gibbs! I am so happy for you!"

She smiled, but balked. "Please don't grabbing," she worried. "M'sore today."

The doctor pulled back, sorry. "Well I'm sorry to hear that. Can I give you a gentle hug?"

She obliged her but didn't let go of her father's neck. "I got new animals. I got a lot of presents. Even poppins."

"Gotcha-gifts? How fun. Any new favorites?"

"Jus' animals," she said coolly. "I got them cause M'staying with Daddy forever."

"Let's talk about that. Are you so happy?"

Gibbs lowered her into a small armchair and she smiled, blushing. "M'being happy. And I got a wagon and we went all around. Tony tooking me all around the street in a circle. And Papa gave me poppins but he had to go home. He said he'll calling Daddy when he gets there."

"That's very mature that you remembered that message. But I need to know something—why did Daddy ask me about drawing?"

Sara's shoulders tightened. "I don't want to drawing. I don't want you to see."

"See what? You drew something?"

"No. I dun'wan'to."

"Why? Did something happen?"

Her hands jerked over her face and she stiffened further, spine arcing. "_No_," she shrieked, rocking. "_Nonono!"_

Dr. Goldman took Sara by the shoulders and sat her up straight. "Look at me," she ordered gently. "Open your eyes. No one is trying to hurt you."

She pulled her hands away, breathing hard. "_Don'hitting. Pleas_e."

"Do you feel your feet on the floor?" The doctor asked calmly.

Sara nodded, eyes wide.

"Do you feel your bottom on the chair?"

Another nod.

"So tell me where you are."

"Wif'you," she slurred, rubbing her eyes. "M'wif you at school."

"Good. Take a deep breath. Daddy is getting your juice." Gibbs produced a sip-cup of apple juice. The doctor pulled off the lid and handed it to Sara. "Slowly," she instructed.

She sipped twice then handed it back to him. "M'done, daddy. Thank you."

Dr. Goldman sat back in her own chair. "Can you tell me what just happened?"

She swallowed and ran her words together, face pale and blank. "Sometimes I...go out. Out in my head. Because, um, I stayed by a mean house once and I drawed and Mrs. Wolcott said…things and she hitted a lot. It was bad. _I_ was bad. I don' drawing anymore because s'bad."

"You're not bad. What did you draw that made Mrs. Wolcott so angry?"

Gibbs cleared his throat and brought her back to the present. "Sweet pea? You're ok."

She nodded, numb.

He redirected her attention. "Can you tell Dr. Goldman what you're thinking about?"

She nodded again, eyes flat green. "I wanted to go to the party…the kids said…but Mrs. Wolcott said no 'cause I…um…forgotted something." Her voice was small and rough. "I made a sorry-picture but she was…mad. She hit and I had to go with the brooms. It was dark in there, and shamed. And the kids were playing and I heard them. But I couldn't going out."

The doctor's face was soft. "I bet it was really hard to be excluded like that. I'm sorry that happened to you."

Sara blinked. "I won't drawing anymore."

"No? But you live with your Daddy now. He won't be upset if you draw."

Gibbs gave her a smile, but she shook her head vacantly. "_Don'wantto._"

"Well then you don't have to. Do whatever makes you feel safe. How's our friend Ziva?"

"Sick. She got a beetle. The one that made me throwing up."

"Ugh, poor Ziva. I bet she feels pretty awful."

Sara shrugged. "She went to the hammock. She was swinging and having juice. I think she will being ok." She was sliding away again, but Dr. Goldman pushed delicately on her knees.

"Are your feet still on the floor?" She asked gently. "And your bottom in the chair?"

"Yes," she replied quickly. "M'wif you, but c'n I go play now?"

"Sure. How about I talk with Daddy while you go with Adjoa?"

Sara nodded, smiling.

Adjoa appeared, waving and smiling. She lifted Sara into her arms. "I have a surprise for you. Do you have a favorite color?"

She shook her head. "No."

Adjoa nodded. "Well let's go pick a color for your surprise. We should take your dress and legwarmers off, too. This is going to get messy."

"Ok," Sara said easily. "Let's going. But careful-M'sore."

Gibbs shifted in his seat once they were gone. "You think she's ok?"

Dr. Goldman nodded. "Flashbacks are common. Just remind her where she is and that she's safe. I don't think there's much we can do to prevent them until we figure out what her triggers are. That could take months…even years. Don't feel hopeless—she's a tough kid."

"I know."

She pursed her mouth. "I don't like that she's so uncomfortable. Have you called the doctor about that?"

"No, but she said it was normal when we visited last week. Those injuries are still healing—she's going to be sore once in a while. I gave her Tramadol this morning and Adjoa has some if she needs more."

"I would call the doctor if it keeps up for another day."

"I don't want her to hurt," he said lowly. "But I don't want to drag her to the doctor every time she gets a bruise."

"I understand, but you gotta watch her, Gibbs. She's got some pretty serious issues."

He nodded. "I'll call tomorrow. She ok…otherwise?"

Dr. Goldman chewed her lip. "It's complex. If I understood what she was saying, it explained why she's anxious about other children. Constant humiliation and isolation are psychological terrorism, and, sadly, that's what shaped her social identity. It's natural for her to think they won't like her. And take the lids off the sippy cups. She doesn't need them and they're holding back her oral motor skills."

"Fine. But that anxiety pisses me off," he muttered.

"I understand that, too, but it's time to set that anger aside. You want to go see her?"

Gibbs stood and adjusted his shirt. Sara's fingermarks were still visible in the collar. "Yeah. I wonder what Adjoa got her into."

"Daddy look at _this!"_ Sara had been stripped to her underwear and was elbow-deep in a plastic box of shaving cream that had been dyed blue with food coloring. The foam was in her hair, on her chest, and strangely, up her nose. She didn't appear to care.

"I am finding things," she reported happily. "Look—I got a compass, a turtle, a snake, a tomato and…this thing." She held up some unidentifiable object the size of an egg.

"That's great, sweet pea. Looks like fun." He dipped a finger in the mix and swirled it around.

"I am," she sang. For a second it was as if the flashback wasn't hers, but some other kid's—not the skinny-but-robust little girl that sat smiling in front of him, but a bruised, sad child who knew the intimate details of the inside of a closet and the darkest side of humanity.

Gibbs forced a smile, conflicted. "Good. Did you swing at all?"

"No," she said, sinking her hands back in the foam. "It hurts to swing today. I will trying again tomorrow."

. . . .

Sara was playing quietly on the living room floor when Tony swept in and crouched to scoop her up.

"No-no," she said softly. "M'sore, Tony."

He switched tactics. "How about like this, then?" He slid one hand beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders and then shifted her back into the crook of his right arm.

"That's better," she said, relieved. "Teaching that to Daddy."

"No prob, buglet. Hey, I have a project for us. Want to make something for Ziva?"

She was immediately interested. "Yeah. What?"

"So I made Ziva a big pot of soup to make her feel better, but I thought you could help me make the matzo balls." He sat her on the kitchen counter, where he'd already prepared the mix and had a pot of broth at a low simmer. "You roll them up and I'll put them in the water. Ready? Look. This is how you do it." He rolled a bit of the mix around and held it out. "Can you do this?"

She rolled up her sleeves and mimicked him perfectly. "Like this?"

"Yeah, nice job. Let's make the whole bowl."

They finished in minutes and watched the dumplings grow through the pot's glass lid.

"They're getting bigger," she sang.

"They're going to be as big as you," Tony observed.

"Nah," she said dismissively, waving a hand. "I don't growing."

"You will," he said kindly. "You're getting there. It just takes time. You're a good eater. That means you'll grow up to be strong."

She shrugged. "I know. I love food. I love every food in the world. Except for raisins and hot peppers. Zeeba eats those all the time."

Ziva did have a palate for heat and would eat spicy pepperoncini out of the jar when nothing else was hot enough. "Yeah, well, she's a ninja."

"What's ninja?"

"Ziva is fast and strong and super-sneaky. Sometimes I don't even know she's there, but she is. She can be really, really quiet. Quieter than a mouse."

"Mouses are quiet," Sara agreed. "And Zeeba is quiet. Maybe she should be more noisy."

"You're right. Why don't you tell her that?"

"I will. Are those things done yet?"

"Yep. Want to take a bowl of soup to Ziva?"

"Ok."

"You have to go on the steps by yourself. I can't carry you and the soup; it's not safe."

Her eyes widened. "Daddy won't letting me do that."

Tony smiled. "We'll go slowly and safely. I won't let you fall. And you can't do it unless a grownup is with you."

She nodded gravely. "Ok," she muttered, twisting the hem of her dress.

He fixed a bowl of soup, stuck a spoon in it, and guided Sara to the bottom of the stairs. "One at a time. Hold on tightly to the rail."

She put one hand on it, but reconsidered and pulled it back. "I'll go up like this," she informed him, and crouched to her hands and knees.

"I like that idea better," he agreed.

She scooted up ahead of him, moving far from the risers before getting to her feet. "That was a little scary, Tony," she said softly. "Maybe you should carrying me next time."

"You'll get the hang of it. Go in and wake Ziva."

She toddled in, hanging onto walls and furniture. "Zeeba?" She whispered loudly. "It's time for you to waking up. It is almost bathtime."

Ziva woke with a sniff. "Hi, _shaifeleh_," she said, nose clogged. "I slept the whole day."

"You are sick," she shrugged. "You need soup. Tony and me made some for you."

"_Tony and I_. How nice."

He slid in, put the tray on the bed, and opened the blinds a crack. It was spitting rain, the light weak and watery. "It was so beautiful earlier," he mourned pathetically. But if you're going to sleep all day, then today's the day to do it. How do you feel, sweet cheeks?"

"Um, fine, I guess. Ducky came at one. He gave me more fluids and removed the IV."

He laid the back of his hand on her cheek. "Still a little warm. I bet it'll break overnight."

She swirled the spoon in her soup. "Kneidlach? No one had made those for me since I was a small girl."

"Sara made them," Tony said proudly.

Ziva took a bite. "A good Jewish woman knows her way around any kitchen. _Yashar koach_,_ motek_. They are very good."

"_Toda_, Zeeba," She cooed, pleased with herself.

Tony frowned. "How did she learn Hebrew?"

Ziva blew on another bite of soup. "She is a sea cucumber."

His frown deepened and he looked at Sara, who shrugged. The lightbulb went on. "Oh, I think you mean sponge, Zi. She's a _sponge_. And yes. I know that. I wish I was, too."

"Me, too," Gibbs agreed, brushing sawdust from his sleeve. "Means you would talk a lot less."

Tony closed his mouth with a pop. Sara giggled.

"Sweet pea, I'm going to change my shirt and then it's bathtime for you. Do you need more medicine?"

"Yeah," she said, soft and shy. "M'sorry, Daddy."

Tony clicked his tongue. "Hey, bug. You don't have to be sorry. It's not your fault if you're sore. Daddy just wants to make it go away." He gave her a gentle cuddle.

No one expected such an adamant display of sweetness from Tony. Ziva and Gibbs exchanged sad, knowing glances and he reached for her.

Tony brushed his hand away. "Like this, Boss," he said grandly, and demonstrated how he'd held Sara; he would make sure it became the preferred way to carry her when she was achy.

"Got it, DiNozzo." He opened his arms for a transfer and Sara leaned into him expectantly. They swept out without another word.

Ziva laid her spoon on the tray. "What was that about?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't like that she apologized for being in pain. It rubs me the wrong way. She's a little girl and someone beat the hell out of her. She should feel more entitled."

She cocked her aching head. "Do you really think that?"

"Yes," he said sharply. "I do. She should not be allowed to think that she's a burden or an inconvenience. She shouldn't think her basic needs are a privilege, not a right."

"I see."

"He isn't going to send her away. I mean, he _adopted_ her, Zi. _Adopted_—as in _forever_."

"Yes. I wish your father had not sent you away."

"This isn't about me," he said quickly.

She blinked. "I know," she lied easily, but he saw through it and shook his head.

"I know how that feels, Zi. I know what it's like when everything is conditional, or that you're…not good enough. I remember the first time I got kicked out of boarding school. I didn't even go home; my dad's driver took me right to the next dorm. I laid in my bunk that night and thought, _I will never make a kid feel the way I feel right now_."

"How lonely," she sighed, threading her arm through his. "Do I make you feel that way?"

He pressed his face to her hair. "No," he replied honestly. "You make me feel like I have finally done something right."

"You are a good man," she said with quiet confidence. "I am sorry you felt unwanted or inadequate. Or like you were intrinsically _bad_."

He scoffed. "Well, I was bad. I harassed nuns, got in fights, damaged property. Did I ever tell you about the time I burned my name into the school football field with a mixture of motor oil and pesticides?"

"Heaven forefend our children learn these things," she sighed, dragging a hand over her eyes. "It will cost us a fortune."

"Our kids will have your sense of responsibility. They will never do something so shameful."

She glanced at the diamond on her finger. "We have no date."

"You have the flu," he countered.

"I would like to have a small wedding," she admitted gently. "I do not want the _meshugas_. I do not want the dress, or the flowers, or the attendants. I want you and I to share a special day with our family. And then we will spend a month on the most beautiful beach we can find."

She settled back in bed and he spooned in tightly. "Bora Bora? Phuket? Goa? Maui?"

"I do not care. But it should be hot. And sandy. And I will drink drinks with little _mitri'ot_ in them."

"Mitri…oh, umbrellas? Yeah. Me, too." He thought for a minute and spoke carefully. "I would like you to be healthy before we go."

"You want me to take my medicine like a good girl. Well, I was a soldier, Tony. I know how to obey orders."

"I want you to be healthy," he repeated. "It's not an ultimatum—I still want to marry you, like, _so bad_—but I want you to be healthy."

"I will do as I am told," she said dutifully.

"That would be a first," he groused kindly.

She said up, pushing back to look into his face. "What would be the point in resisting, Tony? I do not have the energy. I am not willing to compromise what we have. If I have to take a pill every day to make sure I am balanced then so be it."

"Why did you quit the team?"

She shook her head. "I did not quit the _team_, I quit NCIS. And…I did it because we can never adopt a baby if we're both agents. It's forbidden. Gibbs' retirement factored heavily into how easily he got Sara."

Tony frowned. "I didn't think of that. But that process is in the distant future, Zi. You could've worked for another year."

"I did not want to," she said sharply.

"Well what are you doing to do all day? Besides get over the flu and a broken arm, I mean."

"Read, garden, take a walk, bake a cake. _I don't know, Tony_. For the first time _ever _I will do whatever the hell I want."

"You know you need two hands for most of that stuff, right? And you're down by one."

She jabbed him hard with her cast. "Shut up. I know. I want go outside. I want to watch the firebugs."

"Fire_flies,_" he said automatically. "Arsonists are fire_bugs_. And I don't know that we'll see fireflies. Is it still raining?"

She stood and waited for her head to stop its pounding. "No."

The grass was wet and soaked through their sneakers fast. Tony cringed. "I was on a a stakeout in a park once in Baltimore and I had to stand in wet grass for six hours. I was freezing and it was not a cold night."

"Shall I give you a donkeyback ride, sweet prince?"

"Piggyback. And no, thanks. What the hell is that?" Something was in the hammock; it sagged soggily toward the grass. Ugh, tell me it's not a dead crow or something. Or a giant frog. Or a snake_ eating_ a giant frog."

Ziva shoved past him and pulled back the hammock's edge, then burst into peals of laughter. Tony braced himself, peered over her shoulder, and joined her in laughter. Two kittens—one grey, one orange—were curled in the hammock, blinking up at them with wide, grey eyes. Tony picked them both up and held them against his shirt.

"Do we take them to a shelter? Do they belong to someone?"

"None of the neighbors have cats," Ziva reported, eyes soft. "I am certain they are strays. If not, they should have microchips. A veterinarian can check."

"Vets usually close at five. It's almost eight."

"This is Washington, Tony. Something has to be open. Isn't there a clinic in your neighborhood?"

The screen door squeaked open. "The hell are you holding, DiNozzo?"

"Kittens," he announced, holding them up like trophies. "Aren't they cute?"

Gibbs said nothing.

"C'mon, they're a little cute, Boss. Zi and I are going to take them to the vet."

"There's one in Silver Spring that's open until ten. Better get 'em vaccinated."

He dropped a small cardboard box and Tony's keys on the porch, then slammed the door and disappeared.


	3. One Big Love

**Thank you, everybody! Forever!**

_Trading in my things_

_for a couple wings on a little white dove._

_One big love._

_-Patty Griffin, "One Big love._

It took ninja juggling skills for Ziva to get out of Tony's car and into Gibbs' house without dropping the cardboard cat carrier. Depositing her keys on the entry table and her jacket on a hook in the foyer, she found the house still quiet and Gibbs making oatmeal in the kitchen.

"Good morning," she said softly. "I brought you a package."

"Not for me," he said curtly. "I never wanted a pet."

"Your desires are no longer a priority, Gibbs."

"Don't I know it," he groused. "We're home for the day. What's on your agenda?"

Ziva paused and watched him add brown sugar to Sara's small bowl. "I have an appointment with my therapist at four. Perhaps, if you are not busy and Sara is up from her nap, you could drive me and we could have dinner together afterward."

He smiled. "I'd be happy to. Sar would love it."

She frowned. "Where is she? It is seven-thirty. She is usually awake by now."

"She's in bed. Still sore. She won't let me pick her up until the pain medicine starts to work."

"That is not good. Have you called the doctor?"

"I will, but not before eight, Ziver. You want to give her the present now?"

She smiled and followed him up the stairs. Sara was in bed, a hand tented over her eyes. She pulled it away when they entered and her pale, peaked face lit up.

"Hi, Zeeba. Did you coming over today so Daddy could watch you?"

She laughed. "Yes, that is exactly why I came over. Your daddy is a good watcher."

"I know," Sara replied seriously.

Gibbs put her bowl on a tray and sat her up. "Breakfast in bed again. Eat, sweet pea."

She picked up her spoon with one hand and used the other to point at the cat carrier. "Whazzat, Zeeba?"

"Well, Tony and I thought you'd like a present. This is a gift for you, from us."

Sara stuffed a spoonful of oatmeal in her mouth, eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

"It is a useful gift," Ziva postured, slouching a little when Gibbs snorted. She shot him a dangerous glare, but he just looked away and tried not to laugh. "It will teach you how to be responsible and caring and kind."

"Is it a pony?"

"You will ride ponies with Tim next summer. No. Here." She reached into the box and produced the orange kitten. He was the bigger of the two, husky, confident, and sure to tolerate a little kid. Ziva put him among the bedclothes and Sara jumped, startled.

"That is a kitten!" She declared, wide-eyed. "It is a baby cat!"

The kitten fumbled across the blankets so she picked up the bowl and thrust it at Gibbs. "Hold this, Daddy. He is too little to eating oatmeal."

"Sure," he agreed easily, and held it so she could still help herself. "Does the kitten have a name?"

Sara flinched when it touched its cold, wet nose to her arm. "Dunno," she mumbled, puzzling.

"Well, your kitten is very funny," Ziva said gently. "He's very strong, too. So I named him Yitzhak, which means _laughter_ in my language. We will call him Yitzi."

"Yitzi," Sara repeated, flinching again when it walked across her legs. "Yitzi. He's cute."

"Yes, he is," Ziva agreed. "He has a sister. Her name is Yaffa and she lives in my home." She pulled out her smart phone and showed her pictures of Tony and Yaffa playing on her living room floor.

Sara nodded, smiling a little. She stuck out one finger and brushed it down Yitzi's fuzzy back. "Soft," she mused. "Does he liking me?"

Gibbs opened his mouth to answer but Ziva nudged him. "Yes, but you must be kind to him. You must respect his space and his time. You must not grab him or try to hold him if he doesn't want you to. Your kitten will love you if you are gentle and patient."

"Ok," she replied gravely. "I will being nice." Yitzi settled down between her ankles for a bath and she looked up at Gibbs with a broad smile on her face. "See? M'being gentle."

He nodded. "You are. He's very calm around you. Finish your breakfast so we can go to the store and pick out a few things he's going to need."

She ate quickly and moved the bowl to the night table. "The medicine is working." She announced. "We can go."

Ziva shifted uncomfortably and gave Gibbs a loaded look. "_Shaifeleh_, I will get you dressed while Daddy takes Yitzi downstairs for a drink of fresh water."

Anxiety fleeing, Sara leaned down and kissed the kitten's fuzzy head. "Go with Daddy," she instructed kindly. "He will getting you some water and make a bed. You probably need a nap. Zeeba, can I wear my crazy legs again?"

Gibbs palmed the kitten and tucked it back in the carrier. "Thanks, Ziver," he said quietly.

She winked and riffled for a clean dress for Sara.

He made arrangements for Yitzi and was back up in a second, still holding the portable handset. "Change of plans," he sand wryly. "Sara, Dr. Sheehan wants to see you."

She was parked in front her farm, riding an orange cat on a red horse. "S'it 'cause m'sore?"

"Yeah," he said honestly. "She thinks you might have hurt yourself."

"I _didn't_." She blurted, suddenly angry. "I didn't hurt myself. A bad man hurted Zeeba's arm and that was it." She took the cat off the horse and put it on a shelf. "M'not going."

Ziva ran a brush through her curls. "I am sorry, _motek_, but you must go. The doctor will help the pain go away."

"M'not going," she said again, shifting out of reach. "I don't care if s'hurting. M'not going to the doctor _ever again_."

"It's not a choice, sweet pea," Gibbs said gently. "You can give Yitzi a kiss goodbye and then we have to go." He picked her up and she stiffened, hissing in pain.

"Down," she begged. "I want down. M'not going."

He carried her down the stairs, Ziva in tow. "It will be ok, Sara."

Sara began to cry alligator tears and put her head on his shoulder. "Where is Yitzi?"

"He's in your chair in the living room. He loves the soft blanket."

She craned her neck and found him curled among her fleece pads and blankets. "Oh. M'seeing him. Bye, Yitzi. Be good. I'll bring you a treat." She arced an eyebrow at Gibbs. "Do baby cats like ice cream?"

. . . .

Dr. Sheehan did a brief exam and ordered Gibbs to take her immediately for x-rays. "Something is not right," she said brusquely. "I don't like that the Tramadol is only taking the edge off. Her alignment issues have gotten worse. I wouldn't have sent you home last week if I thought she'd be in so much pain today. Sara, you're going to have some pictures taken today."

She didn't seem to care. "And ice cream for me and Yitzi?"

"And ice cream," Gibbs agreed.

"I'll call ahead," Dr. Sheehan said quickly. "Go straight to radiology when you get to Children's. Traffic shouldn't be bad if you go through the park." She handed Gibbs a handful of forms and gave them a gentle shove towards the door.

Sara grew angry again when they stepped off the elevator in the radiology department. She struggled in his arms when Gibbs checked them in at the admittance desk, and threw herself onto the floor once they were seated in the waiting area. "I want to go home," she declared loudly. "I want to seeing Yitzi."

Gibbs was handed a hospital gown and a bag for her clothes. "Nope, sweet pea. Now help me get you changed."

She tugged her dress over her head and looked imploringly at Ziva. "Is this why you gived me a kitten?" She asked, face drawn in sadness and betrayal.

"No," she said quickly. "I did not know you were going to the doctor today. I would have brought you a gallon of ice cream if I had."

A technician waved them though a set of double doors and instructed Gibbs to lay Sara prone on the table.

She squealed, frightened, as soon as the cold table touched her skin. "Daddy? I don't liking this!" She reached for him, but the tech laid a leaded apron over her chest and pushed Gibbs and Ziva behind a protective shield. "She'll be ok once she realizes it doesn't hurt," he whispered.

Gibbs shot him a hard, skeptical look. "She's terrified."

"It'll take a second."

Sara wailed pathetically but the technician was right; four positions and eight films took less than five minutes. He handed her a stack of stickers and a fistful of lollipops.

"One for now," he said grandly, "and ten for later. Dr. Minton will see you in ten minutes. Fifth floor. Good job and good luck. Oh, and don't bother putting her clothes back on." He handed Gibbs a blanket to wrap around her and pointed toward the elevator.

Ziva wrapped one hand around Sara's skinny calf. "This was not how I anticipated her first day as a cat owner," she said lowly.

Gibbs tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders. "Me either, Ziver. Thought we'd be weighing blue collars versus red. Or trying to talk her out of one of those fancy cat beds they never sleep in."

She smiled and looked away.

"DiNozzo bought yours one of those things, didn't he?"

She nodded, sheepish. "I asked him not to, but we know Tony."

"Yeah we do. He's too silly," Sara answered for him. "He will being friends with Yitzi."

. . . .

Dr. Minton was fiftyish and tall, with a wide, friendly face and former-athlete shoulders.

"Hello, Sara," he boomed. "Dr. Sheehan told me all about you. Let's go into my office and have a chat."

Cried out, she was too tired to resist. "Fine," she grumbled, and reached over Gibbs' shoulder for Ziva. "I want you," she said softly.

He lowered Sara into her lap once they were settled in an exam room.

"M'hungry," she pouted. "When do we getting lunch?"

"Soon. Can you be a good girl for Dr. Minton?"

"I guess so," she sighed.

The doctor didn't bother to remove Sara from Ziva's lap. "You can stay right where you are," he promised. "But can I feel your legs and hips? If we're going to make the pain go away then I need to bend your legs and listen."

She was puzzled. "Listen to my legs?"

Dr. Minton bent her left knee to her chest and a loud click could be heard over the ventilation system. His eyes widened. "Did you hear that?"

She waved a dismissive hand at him. "That always happens. It's from when I had metal parts."

Gibbs drew a hand over her hair. "She had an external fixator for two weeks. They left the pins in her pelvis."

Dr. Minton nodded. "Standard procedure. The clicking means her hip is out of its socket. I'll look at the x-rays, but I'm pretty sure she needs surgery."

He nodded, mouth dry. "What kind of surgery?"

The doctor smiled and shook his head. "Let's get the films back before we go there." He checked Sara's right hip and found it sounded the same. "Both sides, huh, kiddo?"

She was arranging her lollipops by color. "Yeah," she said easily. "It hurts a lot when I walk. And when I sit. And when I play at school."

"That's sad. Who's your friend here?" He pointed to Ziva. "And how'd she get that green cast?"

Sara drew a sharp breath. "This is Zeeba. She is my…um…best sister. And her arm is bad so don't touch it. She had a surgery. Tony picked her cast and he is too silly so s'green."

"Wow. Did you help make her feel better?"

"Yes," she said slowly, eyes rolling. "She is my best. I love her. I helped make soup and we read books and said stories and we went for a long walk for ice cream."

"It sounds like you are very helpful."

Ziva held her closer. "You are my best, too, _shaifeleh_. I love you."

An aide delivered Sara's x-rays. Dr. Minton shoved them onto the light board, brow furrowed. "How long has she been wearing her hip abductor brace?"

"'Bout six weeks," Gibbs answered, calculating in his head. "And yes, she wears it as prescribed."

"And she started complaining of pain _when_?"

"Three days ago."

The doctor shifted, cocked his head, and spun. "Well, I'm sorry to say this but I'm almost positive she'll need an open reduction on the left side. It's questionable on the right. Both of her hip sockets healed too shallow. She doesn't have the range of motion she should and it's most definitely why she's hurting." He looked at Sara, who was toying with Ziva's loose curls. "Can you stand up for me?"

Ziva lowered her to the floor and held up the bottom of the long gown. Sara leaned back against her knees.

The doctor knelt. "Can you walk to me, please?"

She hesitated, but took five stumbling steps in his direction, grabbing his knees with nervous hands when she got there. He smiled. "Thanks. Can you walk back to Ziva now?"

Sara spun to go back and her left hip slid out of joint. Ziva caught her before she could fall. "Are you all right, _shaifeleh_? That looked like it hurt."

"S'fine. Are we going home now?"

Dr. Minton nodded. "Yep, you can go home. But stay off your feet and come back tomorrow for an MRI. I'll have Val schedule it and call you later."

Gibbs untied Sara's gown. "Thanks, doc. I'll be hearing from you."

He nodded again. "Tomorrow. Goodbye, Sara. Enjoy those lollipops."

She waved, distracted.

Ziva's mouth fell open as the door closed behind him. "Surgery? Gibbs, she is five years old. She cannot possibly be big enough for the kind of operation he's suggesting."

He pulled Sara's legwarmers up over her knees and opened the Velcro closures of her brace. "I don't think he was suggesting, Ziver. I don't like the idea, either. She'll have the MRI and I'll talk to him about a different approach."

Sara helped him fasten the cuffs around her thighs. "M'still hungry," she sang. "And I ate three 'pops."

"We're going to get some lunch. You want spaghetti?"

She nodded, clearly thinking about unwrapping another lollipop.

"Alright, we're going to Cioffi's. C'mon, Ziver. Let's get out of here."

. . . .

Ziva was still crying when Gibbs picked her up in front of the therapist's office. She collapsed in the passenger seat and fumbled with the belt buckle, trying to juggle her broken arm and a wad of tissues at the same time. Gibbs buckled her seatbelt and mopped her tears away.

"Should we just go home?" He asked gently.

She nodded, sniffling. "I am sorry. I did not think…"

He glanced at Sara, who was watching them both with wide, curious eyes, clutching the bag from the pet supply store. "It's ok," he said, smiling to hide his concern. "We'll have more leftovers for dinner."

Ziva hiccupped. "I am on medication, Gibbs. I thought it was supposed to help. I do not like how I feel right now." She fought it, but failed, and crumbled in a fresh wave of tears.

"The meds aren't going to keep you from feeling, Ziver. And it will take time for them to get into your system, anyway."

She nodded and let her hair fall across her face. "I am not very patient."

"I know. Hang in there."

Sara stirred. "Daddy?"

"What, sweet pea?"

"Um, Zeeba s'crying."

He smirked. "She just came from her school. You know how you're upset after seeing Dr. Goldman sometimes?"

"Yeah."

"Well that's how Ziva feels right now."

She caught his eye in the rearview mirror, troubled. "Daddy, that is sad."

Ziva jumped in, tears subsiding. "I am ok, _shaifeleh_. Did I make you worry?"

Sara nodded, biting her lip.

"I am sorry. Perhaps you and I should swing in the hammock after dinner and have an ice cream."

"Ok," she said softly.

Ziva's phone beeped as Gibbs was pulling Sara from the car seat. She sighed and put it back in her pocket. "Tony has to work late tonight. They caught a case in Edgewood Terrace." She frowned. "We were just over there, Gibbs. Children's Hospital is only a few blocks away."

"What were they doing to do, David? Call you in?"

She looked down, ashamed. "No, I just thought that maybe he would…never mind."

He had Sara in his arms and an indiscernible look on his face. "What would you want him to do? You quit."

. . . .

Sara ate stuffed cabbage once she heard that Tony liked it. "It's good, Daddy," she said around a mouthful. "It has meat and soup together."

He smiled, wiped her hands, and left her in the living room with Yitzi and a new cat toy. Ziva was in the kitchen, where she'd been washing the same three dishes for twenty minutes.

"Ziver?" He said gently. "Hey, that's enough." He turned the water off and she jumped, startled, her cast banging on the edge of the sink. "That's enough," he repeated, voice low and even. "They're clean."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yes. I…mooned out."

"Spaced out. Is your hand ok? The water was pretty hot."

She jerked it behind her back. "Fine. I am fine. I will take Sara out for a little quiet time while you run the bath."

Gibbs' brow furrowed. "You sure?" He inched one arm around her waist and held it there until she settled into his side. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Ziva shook her head, a blush creeping up her neck. "It was nothing. I was just remembering something and…it is not important. Let me take her outside. We will have a treat together."

"I'll carry her out for you. You look a little unsteady."

She swayed in demonstration and crossed her arms awkwardly. "My session was much harder than I anticipated."

He sighed. "Somalia?"

"No," she said sharply, chin up. She deflated instantly. "My father is not…an easy man, Gibbs. He is difficult, demanding, quick to anger."

"Cruel and self-serving," he supplied, pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

She drew a breath and leaned against the counter. "I did not see it that way for a long time." She paused, listening to Sara sing to Yitzi. Her eyes grew wet and distant. "I did not understand parenting until Sara came home. I did not think that it involved kindness or compassion. When I was young I would see American parents on vacation with their children—in the park, or the store, or the beach—how they held and kissed them, how they had this _light_ in their faces. I do not remember seeing that in my father. I thought it was weakness, initially. Subservience. A lack of respect." She shrugged, staring at the floor. "I was wrong."

Gibbs shifted, "Listen, I don't know what went on in your house when you were a kid, but I do know that turning a little girl into a killer isn't alright with me. "

Ziva scoffed. "It was the only way he knew how to raise us."

"I don't like excuses. I didn't have the best relationship with my dad, but having Kelly was like a second chance for me. Maybe it's yours, too."

Her gaze dropped to the floor again and she shook her head sourly. "It is not fair."

"To which one of you? You talk like that sometimes and it's not clear."

She threw her shoulders back. "To either of us." She jerked open the freezer door and grabbed two frozen fruit bars. "I am taking her to the hammock for half an hour. Come out when the bath is ready." She picked Sara up and swept out. The screen door slammed behind them.

Sara put a hand on her cheek as they sidled together across the lawn. "Why are you sad, Zeeba? Did you having a bad day at school?"

She stopped and laughed in spite of herself. "I suppose I did, _motek_. It was hard to talk to my doctor today. I did not want to remember."

Sara looked away. "I don't like to 'memmering, either." She let herself be settled in the hammock. "You don't have to be brave."

She kissed her head. "I know, _shaifeleh_. But it is not so simple. Let's have our treats and some quiet time. Daddy will be out when it's time for your bath."

"Ok," she sighed, and slurped, free hand toying with the edges of Ziva's cast. She pulled back suddenly, frowning and pointed at her hand. "Where is your fingers?"

Ziva rotated her arm awkwardly, wincing. "They have to be inside because they are broken. I cannot move them. The doctor put pins in my hand to help the bones heal."

"Metal parts," she agreed.

"Yes. He will take them out in a few weeks."

Sara hummed in agreement and stared blankly at the sun filtering down through the leaves. "That is not fair," she said after a long silence. "It is not fair when you have a hard time. You need Daddy, Zeeba."

Ziva kicked off again and set them rocking. She stared hard through the yellowing leaves. "I am," she started, but faded out. "I will be fine, Sara. It takes time." She felt right saying those words. Competent. She repeated herself. "I will be fine."

Sara looked at her, seawater eyes wide and unfocused. "Ok," she said vaguely. "Ok, Zeeba. You will be fine. But I love you, ok? You're my best."

. . . .

Tony pulled up at nine and swept Ziva into a tight hug. "I missed you today," he said in her ear.

"I missed you too," she muttered. "I would like to go home."

He grinned, waved at Gibbs, and tugged her toward the car. "I hope Yaffa didn't ruin your couch."

She wrinkled her nose. "I hope she remembered how to find the litter pan."

The cat managed quite well. None of the furniture had been scratched, nor the plants overturned. Ziva scooped her up and nuzzled the soft fur behind her ear, murmuring in Hebrew.

Tony kicked off his shoes and flopped on the sofa. "I have the hardest time remembering you were an assassin when you do stuff like that."

She froze. "Tony, I'm not an assassin anymore. I haven't been in a long time."

He smiled, embarrassed. "Ok. So what are you now?"

"I do not know," she muttered, stroking the cat's ears and staring out the window. "I suppose nothing."

The defeat in her voice knocked the breath from him. "That's not true, Zi. You're my fiancé—that's not _nothing_."

"I am," she agreed. Yaffa twitched her tail, having had enough attention. Ziva set her on the floor and the cat stalked off to groom. "I have been thinking about university, Tony. You speak so highly of your college years, but it is an experience I cannot relate to." She looked at him when the cat turned out of sight, and her eyes were wide and dark and terribly ashamed. "And my formal education stopped before I'd finished high school."

She stopped to take a breath but Tony cut in. "Isn't that against the law?"

"Do you think my father isn't above the law?" She bit back. "There is so much I do not know. Literature, history, science…they were secondary to espionage, counterterrorism and tactical assault."

Tony sighed. "Well, I can't see you joining the Tri-Delts, but you should think about applying to one of the local universities. Maybe take a few different classes and see what strikes your fancy."

Ziva shook her head and looked away. "I am too old," she said tightly. "Most students are ten years younger than I am, or even more. What kind of career could I possibly embark on at thirty-three or thirty-four?"

He made a short scoffing sound. "Gibbs didn't start at NCIS until later in life. I didn't, either. We made careers out of it, and I even pursued an education that wasn't exactly geared toward military criminal justice. You learn as you go, sweet cheeks. How about you and I spend the weekend looking into different course offerings? You can probably start as a non-degree-seeking student in the spring. Or wait and apply for fall enrollment."

"All right," she conceded softly.

Tony's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed. "Wait. Do you have a diploma?"

Ziva went red. "I sat for the _bagrut_ exams but I'd been on a difficult mission in Beirut and I was…tired. I did not pass. My father was furious."

He clicked his tongue. "C'mere. It's ok. I'm sure you did your best."

She shrank away. "I missed a passing score by one percentage point. I offered to take the tests again but he was…" She looked away. "He would not allow it. He said it was any other mission; I had one chance to succeed."

"Ass," Tony muttered. "So what did you do?"

"Nothing," she assured him. "I had a mission a day later in Sarajevo. I interrogated and dispatched two men accused of blowing up a Jewish school and planning further attacks on Israeli soil." He reached for her again. She settled against his shoulder, but tension thrummed beneath her skin. "Tony?"

He flipped to a football game. "Hm?"

"Do you think I am smart?"

He kissed her brow, trying to soothe away the uncharacteristic insecurity. "You speak nine languages, Zi. What part of that _isn't_ smart?"

"But that is easy," she pouted.

"And it isn't for most people. You also have a photographic memory."

"Again," she sighed. "Easy."

"And," he drawled, pulling her closer. "You're beautiful."

Ziva pulled away. "Please, Tony."

"Oh, no," he cracked. "I'm going to marry you. That gives me the license to say these things."

She smiled a little and relaxed again. "Only you," she warned. "Not your rat brothers or your colleagues."

"Frat brothers."

"Same difference."

. . . .

Tim and Abby found Gibbs in the basement, one ear poised at the baby monitor. There was an unopened bottle of bourbon and a wrinkled piece of sandpaper next to it.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted softly. "You hear her?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Thought I did, but she must've fallen back asleep. What's up?" He kissed Abby's cheek.

"Just thought we stop by and say hello. We also brought you this." Tim held out a package. "Sara got a bunch of gifts and we thought you'd feel left out. So here."

He paused. "Thanks, guys."

"Open it," Abby ordered. "You might need it tonight."

In the package were two expensive sliding bevels and a gift certificate to a high-end hardware store in Fredericksburg. They had the best waterproofing supplies for boat hulls and special non-toxic anti-barnacle paint.

Gibbs was impressed. "How did you know I needed these?"

McGee cleared his throat. "Well, I might've come down during the party and scope our your progress. I saw a few scraps you'd practiced measuring, so I thought some more accurate tools might help. The gift certificate is because I wasn't sure what color you'd want to go with."

"Thanks, you two. I mean it."

Abby dove for his arms, but pulled back. "Why so tense?" She begged, chewing her lip.

He blew out a breath. "A doctor at Children's thinks Sara needs surgery on her hip. It's out of joint or something."

McGee's interest was peaked. "Did he say anything about dysplasia?"

"I don't know, he just said the sockets are messed up. Too shallow. She can't move right and it's hurting her. She's having an MRI first thing tomorrow morning."

He shrugged. "I can go with you to the appointment. Might be helpful, given my background."

"Aren't you on a case?"

"There are temps. The evidence has been collected and catalogued, now we're just waiting for results."

Abby narrowed her eyes. "I'm working as fast as I can."

"I didn't mean that. I know these things take time. I can go with Gibbs to Children's and be at the Navy Yard by lunchtime. No later. I promise, Abby."

"Ok," she "But you have to bring Sara with you when you come back." She turned and poked Gibbs in the chest. "And you, too. I want to see you guys. I'll make her a baking soda volcano."

Gibbs grinned, trying out his new bevel. "She'll love that. She's into blaming Tony for messes and nonsense, so you could probably get away with it, too."

"His reputation precedes him," Abby sighed. "But he's a good guy."

McGee smiled. "He bugged me all day for ideas for a small wedding. Apparently Ziva doesn't want all the hoopla."

"Hoopla?" Abby scoffed. "What are you, eighty?"

"Seventy-five," Gibbs answered for him. "And hand me that tube of wood glue."


	4. Tenderness

**I know, I know...everyone is anxiously awaiting the next chapter of "Treading Water." It's coming. Here's this in the meantime, and thanks, again, for all the love. Back 'atcha. XO**_  
_

_We did not ask how things were defined._

_ Some pieces were missing but the puzzle looked fine._

_ -Deb Talan, "Tenderness."_

Abby accosted McGee the minute he stepped off the elevator, whirling so fast her pigtails nearly took her eye out. "What took so long?" She demanded. "I thought the MRI was first thing this morning?"

"It was," he said quietly. "But the doctor wanted to see us afterward. Apparently Sara's lost weight-the pain medicine reduces her appetite."

Abby lead him over to the plasma, where the trace evidence from their latest dead serviceman was labeled and categorized. "So how do we fatten her up?"

Tim sighed. "Dr. Minton had a nurse practitioner insert a nasogastric feeding tube."

She paled—a feat, considering her fair complexion. "How did that go?"

"Gibbs handled it well," he answered hesitantly. "Sara didn't. She didn't exactly throw a tantrum but she just…shut down afterward. She won't talk or smile or even make eye contact."

"Last straw on the proverbial camel, huh? Did they go home?" She tapped away on the keyboard.

"No. He's on his way down—the welcome wagon in the squad room intercepted them. You have evidence for me?"

"I have ballistics," she said cheerfully. "The weapon left on scene was not what killed Petty Officer Bryant. We're looking for a Browning HP Nine, not a M1911. The difference is the bite in the shooter's hand. This one took of a chunk of skin from between the killer's thumb and forefinger. I'm processing for DNA now."

The elevator dinged again and Gibbs stepped into the lab, pushing the stroller. The sun visor was down completely—only Sara's feet stuck out. She wore adorable soft-soled leather moccasins instead of sneakers.

"Hey, ladybug," Abby said gently. "Heard you had a rough morning. Would hanging out with me help you feel better?"

Sara said nothing, but Gibbs gave Abby a hug and peck on the cheek. "Tube's in for two weeks, then surgery."

"Poor little bug," Abby cooed. "Did it hurt?"

"Yeah." Gibbs answered flatly. "She was pretty scared." He pulled up the visor and Sara jerked her head, startled. She stared around the lab with greyish, empty eyes.

Abby gasped aloud; the tube taped in Sara's nose made her look fragile and sick. She clucked like a mother hen. "I'm sorry you had such a bad morning, lambykins. Want to play for a while? We can make a big mess and not even have to clean it up."

Sara just stared, mouth slack.

Gibbs also knelt. "Hey, sweet pea. Why don't we hang with Abby?"

She turned her blank eyes on him and blinked, shaking her head slightly. Her thumb found its way to her mouth but she jerked it away when it brushed the tape on her face.

"Can I pick you up?" He asked, smiling a little.

She shook her head again but he unbuckled the harness and scooped her up anyway. She went limp, head resting just beneath his collarbone.

"Talk to me, sweet pea. Tell me why you're so sad."

She tightened her hand around the sleeve of his polo but said nothing.

Tim and Abby exchanged sad, anxious glances. "I think she's nervous about the operation, Boss. Dr. Minton threw a lot of information at her today. At you, too, but all she seemed to get was that it was going to hurt a lot and for a long time."

Gibbs nodded pensively, pressing his mouth to his baby's shoulder. "You scared of the surgery, Sar?"

She sighed and locked her eyes on the flashing lights of Major Mass Spec.

"I should take her home. See you guys later?"

"Yeah," Tim said readily. "We need to come up with a plan for post-op meals and respite care for you, Boss. The sooner the better so we can all make the proper arrangements."

"'Preciate that, McGee." He kissed Abby's cheek and left, holding Sara with one hand and pushing the stroller with the other.

Abby turned to Tim and huffed sadly. "What kind of surgery? What can we do to make her feel better?"

He blanched, shrugging. "She's having bilateral femoral and pelvic osteotomies. They need to bone graft her acetabula to deepen them, then cut her femurs and reposition the head inside the new socket. They'll reattach the top of the femur to the shaft with plates and screws, which they'll take out when she's healed."

"That sounds horrible," she said roughly, and shook her head as if to clear it. "Is she going to be in pain?"

"She'll have an intravenous analgesia system for the first few days. Non-narcotic pain medication should sustain her after that." He slid a keyboard across the table and began to type rapidly. "Her postoperative care will be difficult. She'll be in a hip spica cast for three to four months, and it could take another two months after the cast is removed before she's walking independently." He pointed to the screen, where x-ray images and a picture of a child in a hip spica were displayed. "It means a big step backward," he sighed. "No standing, no walking. She might not be able to sit in the stroller—depends on the cast—and she'll be back in diapers, for sure."

A fat tear slid down Abby's cheek and Tim swallowed nervously. He tended to forget how intensely she could empathize. He stammered, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm sorry, Abby. I didn't mean to upset you."

She sniffled and cuddled in for a hug. "It's ok. I know you didn't mean it. I just can't imagine how bad she must feel. She's in pain, and now she's got that tube, and then surgery in two weeks, and then how many months of feeling crappy afterward? Poor little baby. We'll need to get her _a lot_ of presents."

He held her tightly, resting his cheek against the part in her hair. "I texted Tony. We'll get something special together for her."

"Has anyone told Ziva? She might be upset."

"Tony must've by now. She'll be more than happy to help."

Abby sniffed. "Yeah," she said into his shoulder. "She and Sarie have some kind of special bond."

McGee couldn't keep himself from smiling. "She does. And I think it's great-she's probably just what Sara needs. No one understands what she's been through like Ziva."

She pulled away. "Wish that wasn't the case," she muttered darkly.

"I know," he agreed. "But we can't undo any of it. Let's go forward."

"Ok." Abby whirled back to the computer, pigtails flying. "I'll finish running the trace and get you the DNA results as soon as they're up. Then we can concentrate on what's really important, Timmy."

He smiled. "Sounds great, Abbs. Anything I can help with?"

"Go figure out what happened to Bryant. You're an _investigator_. Go investigate!"

McGee thumbed the elevator call button and wished he had the courage to kiss her cheek.

Tony was at his desk, crossing disconnected phone numbers off a long list Sara shifted in Gibbs' arms and he checked his watch to find that she was due for another dose of pain medication.

"Can I put you down in Tim's chair, sweet pea? I want to get your medicine ready."

Tony jumped up. "No, Boss. Give her to me."

Gibbs resisted for a minute. "She's not ready, DiNozzo."

"Give her to me," he insisted again. He gently plucked Sara from his chest and laid her face down in his own arms. Gibbs tensed, expecting a reaction, but she sighed and let her limbs fall loose.

"Ziva does this to the kitten when she's upset," Tony said, smiling. "Calms her right down."

"Sara's not a kitten," he snarled back softly, but he could see that DiNozzo clearly had a point. He prepared the medication and pushed the tip of the needless syringe between her lips. "Here, sweet pea."

Tony bent to study her face. "She's falling asleep," he observed quietly. "What happened that she's so out of it?"

"They stuck a tube up her nose. I'm supposed to hook her up to some feeding machine every night so she gains weight. They won't operate until she's up over twenty-five pounds."

"Sorry, Boss," Tony said softly. He pressed a kiss to Sara's head. "Sorry, little bug."

"Everyone's coming over tonight for dinner. You and Ziver gonna stop by?"

He grinned. "Heck yeah. What do you want us to bring?"

He took Sara from his arms and settled her back in the stroller. "Anything that'll make her smile. See ya." He aimed the stroller for the parking garage.

. . . .

Ducky made sure to be at Gibbs' house when the pharmacy-supply company dropped off the feeding pump he'd need for Sara. A visiting nurse taught him again how to hook her up to it—he'd already been given a lesson at the hospital—and set up a schedule so she could do the tube changes and weight checks.

"These two weeks will go quickly, Jethro," Ducky assured him. "And she'll adjust much faster if you maintain your regular routine."

Gibbs nodded mutely and began to rock again when the nurse pulled her hands away. Sara wanted nothing but comfort—she'd refused lunch, a nap, and a walk to the park—and the rocking chair in the corner of her bedroom provided the perfect quiet place for them.

Ducky attached the pump to the IV stand and situated it next to her bed. "I'll stay the evening. I can provide some support when you set her up, and I'd like to be included in the schedule for her postoperative care. I may have some valuable resources for her. Did the doctor tell you how she'd be positioned in the cast afterward? It would be helpful for me to know."

Gibbs kissed Sara's hair. "Dunno. There's a folder of information on the dining room table."

"Well, I'll peruse it while I prepare the chicken," he announced, headed for the door.

Ziva passed him in the hallway and slipped into Sara's room with no fanfare. She lowered herself to the floor beside the rocking chair and dragged her fingertips delicately down Sara's left calf.

"I heard your day was quite difficult," she mused softly, speaking more to herself and Gibbs than Sara. She looked up, dark eyes narrowed with concern. "There is little I can do to make her feel better. Or you."

Gibbs rubbed the back of her neck. "It's ok, Ziver. I'm sure she's glad you're here."

Sara turned her face toward Ziva. Her flat, grey gaze wandered the walls and windows, then she closed her eyes and sighed. Her lashes were wet with tears.

"_Shaifeleh_, I am sorry you are having such a painful operation. But you must not be afraid—your Daddy loves you and will take good care of you. We all will." She rose to her knees and pressed their noses together. "I promise."

Sara drew one hand up to rest on Ziva's arm. She said nothing, but made eye contact with someone for the first time in hours.

"That is a good girl," Ziva cooed, and looked at Yitzi, curled and half-asleep at the foot of her bed. "Your _chatul _knows something is wrong. See how he is looking at you? He is here because he knows you need him."

Sara looked at the cat with the same blank expression and put her thumb in her mouth.

Downstairs, the front door swung open and the soft voices of Tim, Tony, and Abby filtered up the steps. They had potlucked the meal, providing side dishes and charcoal briquettes for the grill.

Gibbs stood with Sara in his arms and reached down to pull Ziva from the floor. "Let's go see what they brought," he said softly.

Tony was setting the table when they got down there, having tied a bunch of colorful balloons to the back of Sara's chair.

"Hey," he said, smile fading. "No improvement, huh?"

"Nope," Gibbs replied gently, and gestured to the bouquet. "Thanks. See your balloons, sweet pea?"

She made a small noise of acknowledgement and turned her face away.

Gibbs breathed in her ear. "You know what, sweet pea? That's enough feeling sorry for yourself. I know you're sad, but you have your whole family here to make you feel better. How about you give them a break?"

Tony shook his head. "Leave her alone, Boss. She's allowed to be sad. She's got a rough road ahead of her." He reached for her, but tripped over a table leg and fell on the back of a chair, dangerously close to taking a shot to the groin. He doubled over, face red.

"Ugh," he grunted. "Damn. Er…darn."

Sara turned, the corner of her mouth tipped upward. Tony grinned back at her, rueful. "So I go crazy all day trying to get you out of this funk, and all it takes is a punch in the gut?"

She smiled further and swiped at the tape on her cheek. He pulled her hand away and kissed it, then held out his hands. "Can I hold you?"

"Yeah," she whispered, and leaned over Gibbs' arm.

He pulled her close and let Gibbs disappear into the kitchen. "Wanna tell me why you're so upset?"

She let her hand wander again to the tube taped across her cheek. It was looped around her ear, the capped end taped to the back of her shirt so it stayed out of the way. "Dun'wanna be robot."

"You won't ever be a robot. That tube will put food in you belly while you sleep. You lost weight and that's not good."

"M'a good eater," she protested softly, eyes wandering.

"I know that, but you're too skinny and it's bad for your eyes and bones and teeth."

"M'having a surgery," she complained.

"Yeah, you are," he acquiesced. "But once everything's fixed you won't hurt anymore. You'll be able to run around and play like any other kid."

"Playing wif'you," she said lowly, and laid her head on his shoulder.

"With me and Ziva and everyone else. And Yitzi." The cat had come down the stairs. He walked to his bowl in precise steps and ate.

Tony bounced her a little, intent on keeping her talking. "How about you have some dinner with us? We're having chicken and Abby made you some sweet potatoes because she knows they're you're favorite."

"Thank you, Abby," Sara muttered shyly, and Tony put her in her chair and slid a plate in front of her.

Gibbs took his own seat. "Eat, sweet pea. Ziver, you too."

Ziva blushed and stabbed a piece of dark meat. "I will."

Sara put a bite of chicken in her mouth, gagged, and spat it out. She shook her hands at him. "No, no, Daddy. My throat is sore."

Ducky scooped the regurgitated food away with a paper napkin. "There's no need to force her to eat tonight, Jethro. She'll adjust in a day and I can increase the amount of formula she gets at night to make up for it. Would you like to try some juice, princepessa?"

"Please," she said quickly, and held out a hand for the sip-cup of apple juice. It went down without a problem, though her free hand stayed at her collar while she drank.

Tim sat and prepared his own plate. "We made a schedule for after Sara's surgery. It might need some tweaks, still, but we'll have someone here in the morning so you can go for your jog, and someone here for dinner so you can focus on her and not have to worry about cooking. Ziva's planning freezable meals and we'll do some shopping and cooking each evening." He paused to slice his chicken into perfectly even cubes. "I know you won't have time to build anything, so I've ordered a few things for Sara from a craftsperson I know. She builds special furniture for children in hip spicas."

Gibbs chewed and nodded. "Thanks. All of you—thanks," he said, voice rough. Sara sensed his—what? Sadness? Affection? Gratitude?—and reached for him.

"Daddy?" She asked softly, eyes clear but worried.

"I'm ok, sweet pea," he said quickly. "We have a really good family."

"I know," she replied. She rubbed her eyes, but jerked her hand away when it brushed the tube. "M'tired. I need to going to bed."

"Ok. Let me finish and I'll take you upstairs."

"No bath," Ducky warned. "Not until you know what you're doing with the nasogastric tube. Just wipe her down with warm cloths and wash her hair in the sink tomorrow."

He picked the last of the chicken off the bone and swallowed, already pulling Sara out of her chair. "C'mon, sweet pea. Say goodnight."

"Goodnight," she echoed.

They trudged up the steps and into the bathroom together, where he deposited her on the vanity and reached for a clean cloth. She sat perfectly still while he dabbed at her face.

Listen, baby girl," he said kindly. "We're gonna get through this. It might be hard, but I'll do my best ok?"

Her eyes grew wet. "Don't throwing me away, Daddy. Please?"

"Never. Remember when we talked to the judge? He made us forever."

Sara nodded, uncertain. "I memmer. But still don't throwing me away."

"I wouldn't ever do that. I love you way too much."

"Love you, too," she mumbled, and helped him pull her dress off over her head. It brushed the tube in her nose. "Careful," she warned, one finger poised in the air.

"Always," he promised, and kissed her head.

"No," she frowned. "F'effer."

He laughed gently. "Forever."

Ducky appeared in the doorway holding a bag of prepared formula. "Allow me to help you, Jethro."

He dressed her quickly in pyjamas and put her in bed while Ducky adjusted the pump, set the flow rate, made sure the tube was placed properly, and began the feeding cycle.

Gibbs stepped back, suddenly nervous. "Is she ok? Sweet pea? You alright?"

"Yeah," she sighed, drifting.

Ducky brushed her hair back. "It may look frightening, Jethro, but she is perfectly safe. I will come by tomorrow morning and help you disconnect her. You can resume your regular days as soon as you're both ready."

"Should I take her to school tomorrow?"

"Why wouldn't you? She has gained tremendous ground since she began therapeutic activities. Keep her active until you can't any longer."

"What about after the operation?"

Ducky patted his shoulder. "Speak to her therapists. Goodnight, Jethro."

. . . .

Gibbs sat in Sara's room for a long time after she fell asleep, venturing downstairs only when he heard it go quiet. Dinner had been cleaned up, leftovers stored in the refrigerator, the dining room returned to its original state. Sara's balloons bobbed in the breeze from the open window. Ziva was at the table, a new laptop open in front of her.

He pulled out the folder given to him at the doctor's office. "What's going on, David?"

"Just research. I am looking into possible educational opportunities."

"For Sara? It'll be a while before I start thinking about that."

"For me," she replied softly.

"Headed off to college, huh?"

"In the future, perhaps. I am currently ill-equipped to begin university-level courses."

He snorted. "You're one of the brightest I got, David."

She blushed. "I have run up against…a wall, yes? While I have a certificate that states I completed my high school classwork, I did not pass the exams that grant one an actual diploma. Most universities will not accept a student who doesn't have a _bagrut_."

Gibbs put down his papers. "How the hell did you fail?"

Her blush deepened. "I had been on a mission until the day of the test. It was difficult—I was terribly sleep-deprived. My thinking lagged as a result." She paused to shrug. "I did not have much time to prepare, either."

He turned back to his papers. "You didn't fail, Ziver, you were sabotaged. Eli set you right up, didn't he?"

"I worked all the time, Gibbs, and I knew I would have to take the exam eventually."

"He couldn't give you a week off to study?"

"I suppose not. There were only a few in my squadron that possessed my skills."

"Because they got their diplomas first," he groused softly. "They weren't yanked out of school for weapons training or hand-to-hand combat. So what's the plan? Can you take the test here?"

Ziva shook her head, still blushing. "I cannot. I lost eligibility when I became an American citizen."

"GED?"

"The articles I read indicated that it was a mistake to think of it as equivalent to a true diploma. But American high schools grant diplomas based on coursework, rather than exams, so I am not eligible for one of those, either."

Gibbs shuffled his papers and set them aside. "Did you talk to DiNozzo about this?"

She nodded. "He was not terribly concerned."

"Yes he is," he assured her. "He just didn't want you to know it."

Ziva's dark eyes turned flat. "So he is ashamed, also."

"No one is ashamed, Ziver, but he's well-connected. He might know someone who would be able to help you. How about McGee? He knows someone for sure."

She stiffened, rolling her eyes. "He has multiple advanced degrees from top-tier universities. What would he know about lacking a high school diploma?"

"Hey," he cautioned. "I don't like how you just said that. Why are you so interested in this, anyway?"

She was insulted. "What is wrong with wanting a college degree?"

"Not a damn thing. What are you trying to prove?"

"That I am more than the sharp end of the spear." She pulled out her phone. "I am calling Tony to pick me up."

"Where is he?"

"Everyone got a call about the case they're on. They left an hour ago."

He shook his head. "So how the hell is he supposed to take you home if he's on scene?"

"Nevermind," she replied slowly, setting her phone aside. "I will have to wait for him. I am not cleared to drive yet."

Gibbs smirked. "Since when do you let a doctor tell you what do to?"

Ziva eyed him dangerously. "I promised everyone that I would do as I was told. I take my antidepressant, I take care of my arm, and I will not drive until the orthopedic surgeon tells me that it is permissible."

He shrugged and got up. "So stay here."

"Yaffa is alone."

"Fine. I'll go get her. You stay with Sara." He grabbed his keys and stuffed his wallet in his back pocket.

Her eyes lit in fear. "I cannot do that, Gibbs. What if something happens with the feeding tube while you are away?"

"Then you either call Ducky or call nine-one-one. You know you have skills, Ziver. Use 'em."

She blushed, smiling, and watched his retreating back sweep across the front lawn.


	5. Cowboy in the Jungle

**Thanks, as always. I'm still in awe each and every time. **_  
_

_With no plans for the future_

_he still seems in control._

_From a bronco ride to a ten-foot tide_

_he just had to learn to roll._

_-Jimmy Buffett, "Cowboy in the Jungle."_

It was weird to think that a tube could go down her nose and into her belly. It was even weirder that Ducky put food in it while she was asleep. The pump made a clicking sound that woke her up sometimes. Being awake at night wasn't weird; it happened all the time. Sometimes it was peaceful, but most of the time it was sad and angry and scary. Not weird, though. But her hips were weird. They were all slidy and grindy from the metal parts. Sometimes Sara said it fast in her head. _Metalparts_. Metalparts and surgery and more metalparts and tubes. She would be a robot soon. _Yessir_. Was Abby a robot? Maybe that was why there were pictures on her skin. She would play with Abby in her fancy basement. Maybe she'll ask, then.

Yitzi came in and jumped on the bed. He was cuddly if Sara was quiet and still. He would curl up at her feet and sleep, or take a bath, or pounce on her wiggling toes. Cats weren't weird, she decided. They were _fickle_, though. _Fickle_ was how Abby described it when she didn't know what she wanted. Peppers or cucumber? Chicken or fish? Fickle was a cranky version of _confused_.

Daddy's hair stuck up before he took his shower. Sometimes he even went running that way.

"Sar?" He asked from the hallway. He pushed open the door. "You up?"

"Yeah," she said softly. Her voice sounded stuffy because of the tube. And sore.

Ducky was there again. "Good morning, principessa. Let's unhook that pump and flush the line."

It hurt a little when the tube moved. She ignored it and watched Yitzi wash his face.

"All set now," he announced, sitting her up in the bedclothes. "Are you accompanying your father on his morning constitutional?"

She fixed him with a blank stare.

"Are you going for a jog in the stroller?"

"Oh. Yeah. I like to go in the morning. Daddy?" She held her arms up for him then jerked away. "Oh, no. I need…"

Gibbs held out the needleless syringe loaded with Tramadol. "Here." She didn't even make a face at the bitter flavor, just swallowed and handed it back to him.

"She should have something to eat before you go, Jethro. Do you have anything already prepared that I could get for her?"

"No, she needs protein in the morning. I like to make eggs for her."

Ducky nodded. "Stir in a little sour cream. It makes them quite fluffy, even if you're making them in the microwave. Will you be having breakfast in bed this morning, principessa?"

"Yeah," she sighed, seawater eyes sad. "I don't want to getting up yet." She curled back under the blanket.

Gibbs rubbed her back with the flat of his palm. "You feel bad still, sweet pea?"

"M'ok," she mumbled, eyes closed. She _did_ feel bad, but she wanted to have a regular day. "We can going for a run."

"Stay with your daughter, Jethro. Hold her," Ducky chided gently. "I will make her something to eat."

Gibbs picked Sara up and wrapped her in a blanket. "Chilly this morning, baby girl. You sure you want to go with me?" He sat in the rocking chair ands he snuggled against his chest.

"M'always liking to go with you, Daddy."

. . . .

A soft _pop _and a flash of blue greeted Gibbs when she stepped off the elevator into the lab and Abby ran out from behind a temporary protective shield with Sara on her hip. They were both wearing lab coats—Sara's had been specially ordered from a children's costume company—safety goggles, and rubber gloves.

"We made a blue burn!" Sara exclaimed happily. "Did you see? We put the stuff in and then Abby put a fire and it blowed up."

"I saw that. Are you listening to Abby? It's very important that you do exactly as she says."

Sara was sobered by his gravity. "Yes," she swore solemnly. "I know, Daddy."

Abby pointed at their experiment. "We had a short Labby safety course before we started. And that is just a quick-burning match and some boron compounds. They're completely safe and non-toxic. We also made a baking soda volcano and fake snot."

Sara dug into the pocket of her lab coat and produced a zip-top baggie of green goo. "Blah," she intoned flatly.

"What is that made of, Abbs?"

She grinned. "Baking soda, school glue, and plant-based food coloring—all totally safe. Are you guys headed home?"

Sara rubbed her eyes and yawned. "Yes. I want to take a nap with Yitzi."

Gibbs pulled her into his own arms. "How do you feel, sweet pea? Is your throat still sore from the tube?"

She took off her goggles and gloves and let them fall to the table behind him. "A little bit. I need some medicine maybe. Did you doing all your work?"

"Yep. Let's get lunch and take a nap."

She leaned forward and pressed a wet kiss to Abby's cheek. "Bye, Abby. I had fun with you."

"Come back and play another time, ladybug. See you later!"

Gibbs passed Ziva in transit. She gave him a soft smile and put her unbroken hand on Sara's back. "How is she doing?"

He tightened his grip possessively. "Adjusting fast. She spent the morning in the lab, playing. Making _this_." He held up the bag of slime.

She made a face. "That is gross. I'm sure she loved it."

He craned his neck; Sara had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the short elevator ride. He drew her blanket over her shoulders. "Guess so," he deadpanned. "You coming by later?"

"Yes. I'm having a quick conversation with Abby, and then Tony and I are going to the doctor." She ducked her head. "_Both_ doctors."

Gibbs kissed her temple. "You'll do great. See you."

Abby threw her arms around Ziva. "Hi! Oh, I missed you. It's so sad without you here—all that testosterone and no way to manage it. How are you feeling? Is the antidepressant still making you wonky?"

"A little," she admitted. "But it is fine as long as I take it with food."

Abby grinned. "Good. It sounds like you're getting the hang of it. What did you want to talk about?"

Ziva looked away. "I know that you are highly educated, Abby. I thought you could perhaps offer some insight." She spoke quickly and softly, a little embarrassed still. "I am looking into possible educational opportunities, but I've found that I come across a stumbling block."

She checked Abby's face to see that she'd gotten the idiom correct. She was met with a small smile and concerned green eyes. She took a breath and continued. "I do not possess a high school diploma-I did not pass the mandatory exams. As I became a U.S. citizen, I am no longer eligible to take the them. I am not sure what to do."

Abby clutched her again in a tight hug. "You are so brave, Ziva. I mean, it would be like you to take on something like this—you kick _so much ass_. What took you so long to come to me? I've done all kinds of coursework and professional development. Of course I can help you—I'd love to."

Ziva crossed her arms awkwardly and Abby noticed for the first time that she looked young in her grey t-shirt and flagging self-confidence. Young and _small_. "I was worried you would think less of me," she said lowly. "I do not know one single person in this agency who is a high school dropout."

She was aghast. "You are not a dropout! Israel has a completely different system. You probably had to take out enemy operatives to pass phys. ed."

She smiled at that. "My French language exam was a thirty-minute interrogation of a suspected terrorist from Bretagne."

Abby cackled then abruptly grew serious. "Wait, are we still joking?"

Ziva shrugged. "Sort of. So, do you know what I can do?"

"Oh, absolutely! People in this city bounce in and out of school all the time—they get more degrees, or they do continuing ed, or learn new languages, take pottery classes…there's even an online GED course and exam through the Montgomery County Community College. I think its open enrollment—that means you can start at any time. Want me to call them for you?"

She shook her head. "That is unnecessary. I can do it myself."

Abby huffed. "Then at least let me be there for moral support. Oh! You should get a new computer before you start."

She smiled. "I already have. McGee helped me pick it out. Are you busy? Can we call now?"

Playing with Sara had set her back several hours, but she smiled anyway and said, "Absolutely! Let me find the number and we'll see if you can register."

The anxiety that had crept up Ziva's esophagus began to slide back down. "You are sure it is all right?"

Abby rolled her eyes. "Positive. Stop being such a nervous nelly, already."

. . . .

Tim banged through the front door backwards, dragging a dolly with him. "Hey, Boss. I got that spica-friendly furniture. It's in pieces." He shrugged. "I know you like to build, so I thought putting it together might make you happy. Pretty rough coupla days, huh?"

He put down his sandwich, grateful and exhausted. Sara had woken when they got home, thrown a tantrum about the feeding tube, and then refused to eat. Ducky came to the rescue, started her on a short naptime feed, and rocked her to sleep while Gibbs went downstairs and threw an empty jar against the wall. It was still in shards on the floor—he hadn't bothered to sweep it up.

"Thanks, Tim. Yeah, I could use a little time in the basement."

"Great. I'll help you carry it downstairs, but I need to get back to the bullpen. Abby has some contacts for me about our latest case."

They dragged the boxes downstairs and stacked them on sawhorses. Gibbs dropped his hands, exasperated.

"Are you sure we have to go through with this operation? I'm really pissed that they're going to cut her open for a third time. I just want her to have the chance to be a normal kid."

"Third and fourth time. The operation will require two incisions…but that's not important. I wouldn't recommend alternative treatments—the research just doesn't support it as an option for her. The degree of dislocation is too far advanced, and a child past walking age isn't a candidate for a more conservative approach."

"Why did it take so long to figure this out?" He demanded. "Why didn't anyone notice?"

"The pediatrician did. That's why she sent you to Minton in the first place." Tim was cool and rational and absolutely infuriating.

"I mean the first time. Did Levine cause this?"

"I doubt it. There's a good chance she was born with it. There's also a good chance that the endocrinologist can help. When is the appointment?"

"Next week. He already knows she's got a feeding tube."

"I'll go with you. I'll clear my schedule for the day and do some serious digging so we can figure out if this is part of a larger issue. I know you don't want her to go through the surgery but without it she'll be wheelchair-bound by the time she's ten. The hallmarks are already there."

Gibbs swallowed. "You're sure about that?"

"Scout's honor. This has to be really difficult, especially so soon after the adoption. Are you concerned that the district will see this as a failure to properly parent her? That they'll remove her from your care?"

"Hell yeah, I'm concerned. I get her, and then a month later she's having major surgery? I'd be suspicious."

"Boss, the medical team said way back in the beginning that she'd most likely need follow-up procedures. Susan knew that—it was in the file. There's nothing you did or will do that indicates neglect or abuse."

Gibbs ached for a finger of bourbon. "I feel like a monster for putting her through this."

"I would, too," Tim agreed. "She's so little, and she trusts you, and she loves you, and you have to put her through months of pain and suffering to _keep_ her from worse pain and suffering in the future. It's not a fair shake, Boss. And that sucks."

The front door creaked open again. Tony and Ziva were tiptoeing, certain everyone was asleep. They heard someone settle on the sofa, and Tony's quiet, loving words slid toward them through the vents.

Tim went red. "Guess I should head out. I'll see you later."

"Come by tomorrow night," Gibbs ordered. "You'll want to see this when it's done."

"On it, Boss," he smiled, and went upstairs to interrupted Tony and Ziva's moment in his awkward, bumbling escape.

. . . .

Ziva was dozing on the sofa when Gibbs emerged from the basement. He'd built Sara's new furniture and cooled his temper without liquid intervention. Her cast had been changed—electric green traded for red with a purple overlay—and she was pale.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "You like it?"

She puzzled at him. "Why are you holding a giant slice of lime?"

"It's a chair and desk for Sara. For when she's in the cast." He put it on the floor beside the recliner. "The tray flips and becomes a chalkboard."

"Perhaps we can get her to draw. And it rocks," she mused. "Literally-back and forth. It is very cute, Gibbs. Tim bought it for her?"

"Yeah."

"He is a good man."

"How'd it go at the doctor?"

She closed her eyes again. "Which one?"

"Both. Pins out?"

She winced. "Of my fingers, yes. The other ones are becoming permanent décor."

"Hurt like a sunufabitch, didn't it?"

She bobbed her head. "I am fine. And therapy was hard. It always is."

He bent and kissed her brow. "I know. Where's DiNozzo?"

"At work. Being team leader is not an easy job."

"Ya think, Ziver? Did you figure out what you're doing yet?"

She gave him the first genuine smile in weeks. "I registered for an online GED prep class and exams. I'll start tomorrow at ten am. I can do one module a day and there are twenty-one modules. In three weeks I can take the exams, and then I will have a diploma. Then I will consider the next step."

Gibbs kissed her again. "Great work. You talked to McGee?"

She blushed. "No, I spoke to Abby. Did you know she's taken several different non-degree-seeking programs as professional development?"

"Yeah. That's what being a scientist is all about. Want something to eat?"

"No, thank you. I'll wait for Sara to get up."

"Then I'll have to deal with that damned tube."

She smirked at him and sank further into the cushions. The new sofa was over-stuffed and comfortably upholstered in soft corduroy. "That's what you must do if you want a healthy little girl, Gibbs. I am sinked. Both appointments were difficult today."

"Yeah, I know that, David. And you mean 'drained.'"

Her phone rang and she answered it with a jerk. "David."

Eli David's voice bounced off the satellites. "Ziva, it's your father."

"Papa," she said dazedly. "I did not expect to hear from you."

He switched quickly to Hebrew. "Not hear from me? After you gave up everything I instilled in you? How could you think that?"

She stepped out onto the front porch, waving a hand at Gibbs that meant she needed privacy. "_Instilled_? Your expectations were simply not feasible. I am human, Papa, despite your ideas to the contrary. I am not a killer, I am not a soldier, and I am certainly not yours to manipulate any longer. You prescribed me into a role that would have end my life long ago. If anything, I have succeeded beyond the scope of your expectations."

"Ziva, listen to your father."

She grew livid. "You cannot honestly call yourself a father after what you demanded of me. You were—are—impossible to please and I am finished with trying. Goodbye, Papa."

She hung up with a click, took several long breaths to calm herself, and then stepped off the porch.

. . . .

Sara awoke cranky and out of sorts. Her hair was wild and her face was as pale as Ziva's. "My belly hurts," she complained. "The tube is hugging too hard. And my throat hurts. And my nose hurts. Can you calling Dr. Ducky?"

He disconnected the pump and flushed the tube. "Nope, but a nurse will be here later to check everything out. Hungry?"

"For ice cream." She loosened the right cuff of her brace and pulled up a drooping crazyleg.

"Fine. You can have ice cream now and meat later."

"And baby trees," she challenged.

"And broccoli. Ziva was here, but she went out for a walk. She'll be back soon."

"Yes. Did she seeing my booger bag?"

He laughed. "Yeah, and she thought it was gross. Here." He offered pain meds before picking her up.

She took them and fussed. "That is so yucky."

"You're the one who owns a bag of snot."

She smiled and the flat grey left her eyes. "I know. I made it with Abby. Is she being a robot? Why does she having all those pictures?"

Gibbs picked her up and sat in the rocker. "No, she's not a robot. She has tattoos. They're there forever. She had to make a big choice when she got them and drawing them was painful."

She buttoned and unbuttoned the placket of his shirt. "Like a surgery?"

"A small one," he agreed.

Her eyes went flat again. "I do not want to having a surgery."

"Me either. But let's make a deal. You get all better and we'll go to the beach."

Sara scowled at him. "Why?"

"Because it's fun, sweet pea. We'll go swimming and build sandcastles."

"Oh." She stared, and he began to suspect she was shutting down.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes wandered the room, blank and unseeing. "Dun'wanna being a robot. Dun'wanna going away. Dun'want metalparts."

He rocked and shushed, cupping the crown of her head in his hand. "It's ok, sweet pea. We won't talk about that anymore. No beach, then. What do you want to do?"

She fell silent for a long moment, and he feared he'd lost her again. Just when he was about to give up, she spoke.

"I wanna go owling-moon, Daddy. And be brave."

. . . .

Ziva stepped through her apartment door just as Tony was hanging up his cell. "Where the hell have you been?" He demanded. "I called four times. You just walk off Gibbs' porch like it's nothing, then make us spent two full hours wondering where the hell you are."

She gaped and pulled her own cell from her pocket. "Oh. I did not know you tried to reach me. I needed some space after my appointment. I decided to walk home."

"You decided to walk five miles alone? At rush hour? With a broken arm? I know you can take care of yourself, Zi, but that wasn't safe."

She shrugged. "My father called," she said carefully. "I needed to think."

He deflated and drew his arms around her. "Are you ok?"

Her head fell against his chest seemingly of its own accord. "He said, in his own way, that I'd failed him yet again. He was disappointed. Angry."

Tony's hand worked its way up the back of her neck, where he toyed with the little curls at her nape. "And you?"

"I said it wasn't his concern, that I wasn't trying to please him, anyway. Then I hung up."

"You hung up on him? Really?"

She turned toward the windows but made no effort to step away. "What was I to do? Let him continue to berate me from six thousand miles away?"

"Brava. I'm glad you stood up for yourself."

"There will be consequences, I'm sure of it. But I am so tired that I do not care."

"Go get cleaned up and I'll get you something to eat. We have leftover burgers. Want one?"

Red meat made her stomach churn. "No, thank you."

Ziva washed her face and hands and pulled on clean yoga pants and one of Tony's old shirts. Her arm throbbed and a small headache was blooming at the base of her skull. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and let her head hang on its stem, feeling the stretch all the way down below her shoulder blades.

"Here," Tony said quietly, holding out two pills and a glass of water. "It'll help you sleep tonight."

"No," she said without looking up. "You know I do not—"

"Tonight you do. Take them. Here's some toast to keep you from getting an upset stomach."

She frowned at the smell. "Peanut butter?"

"Fat and protein, both of which you could use. Eat up. Want to watch _Alien_ with me? _Prometheus _was just released and I want to brush up before I see it."

She chewed thoughtfully. "That does not sound like a terrible idea. May I have some ice? My arm hurts."

They plopped together on the sofa and kicked their feet up on the coffee table, but Ziva's phone rang again before they had the chance to settle in.

"David," she said, heart racing.

"Zeeba, you were here and then you left and now I am going to bed. You didn't staying to say goodnight."

Ziva pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at Sara, who was quite obviously miffed. "I am sorry, _shaifeleh_, that was very selfish of me. Tomorrow I will come over for breakfast."

Sara accepted her peace offering. "Ok. Come with Ducky and take out the tube."

"I cannot, _motek_. That tube is there to make you healthy. It has to stay until the doctor takes it out."

"A nurse came to my house. She had a bag like Ducky's but she didn't wear the coat. I have a coat. Abby bought it for me and we made icky green goo today."

"Your Daddy told me. I will see you a breakfast, _shaifeleh_. _Laila tov._"

"_Laila tov_, Zeeba. I love you." She hung up with a click and Ziva replaced her phone on the sofa arm.

Tony had the movie paused and was filling a gallon zip-top bag with ice. He handed it to her with a little ceremony. "You love that kid."

"So do you," she countered coolly. "I...understand her."

"You _love_ her. That's different than understanding. You'd give your life for her."

"I think we all would," she replied, eager to change the subject. "I am excited to start school tomorrow. It will be a nice change of pace for me."

"I'm so proud of you," Tony said quietly, and kissed her cheek.

She pushed him away, smiling. "I have not done anything yet. Let me pass the first course before you celebrate. Start the film, please, I need to get a good night's sleep."

. . . .

Sara's pain deepened and spread overnight. She only dozed between doses of Tramadol and cried for her father each time it wore off, which happened more and more often as the night wore on. Gibbs gave up at four, put Sara to his shoulder, and paced the room until Ducky showed up.

Ducky, to Gibbs' chagin, was only mildly alarmed. "This can happen, Jethro," he warned quietly. "Now you understand why Sara needs this procedure. I'd like to speak to her orthopedic surgeon regarding pre-operative pain management. May I have his telephone number, please?"

Gibbs pointed down the stairs. "In the folder on the sideboard."

"I'll call the nurse, also. Let me take care of her feeding tube first."

Sara only whimpered when he flushed the line and turned her head against her father's neck. Ducky re-fastened the clamp to the back of her pyjamas. "Stay with your father, sweet girl. I'll be back momentarily."

He reappeared in ten minutes, looking a little more concerned. "I had to talk Dr. Minton out of admitting her to the hospital for pain management. The nurse is coming in an hour, however, to start her on a round of opioids."

"Narcotics? No way, Duck."

"Yes, Jethro. It's the only effective course for this severity of pain. They're safe for children and she'll be much more comfortable."

"And high."

"Not high, drowsy. Sara will only receive the codeine when the pain is severe as it is now. Otherwise, her current analgesics will work quite fine. There is no fear of psychological dependence and the side effects will be managed before they occur."

"Why did the codeine make Ziva so sick, then?"

Ducky shook his head. "Those were not physical effects, Jethro, they were psychological."

Gibbs fell silent, brooding, and Sara picked her head up. "Daddy?"

"What, baby girl?"

She shivered. "M'cold."

He wrapped a soft blanket around her. "Better?"

She hummed and drifted again.

Ducky put a soft hand on his shoulder. "Jethro, she will be fine. It may take time and effort and hardship, but she will heal. Believe me, please."


	6. Fox Confessor

**Sorry for the wait, kind friends. And watch out for the *T* factor. Take care of yourselves and remember that The Mecha loves you.**_  
_

_He shames me from my seat_

_ and on my guilty feet_

_ I follow him to retreat._

_ -Neko Case, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood."_

Ziva sat gingerly in Dr. Loeb's hot seat. The first moments of each session reminded her a little of interrogation: the face-off, the hemming, and the nerve-wracking moment preceding spoken truth.

"So?" The doctor began casually. "How was your week?"

She exhaled. "I began my GED coursework yesterday. I finished an entire module in algebra and today I began the second. It is hard but…" She paused and gave a small, shy smile. "I liked how I felt when I finished last night. I did not answer a single question incorrectly on the final comprehensive assignment."

Dr. Loeb returned the smile. "Not one wrong, huh?"

"I find that I am very good at math," she said quickly.

"What if you had gotten some of the questions wrong? Would it still mean as much to you?"

Ziva's brow furrowed. "I find that I am very good at math," she repeated. "I like the constant of it. Unlike English, everything retains its own value no matter the context."

"Consistency is important to you."

She nodded once. "Yes, it is. I like to have a routine and a clear set of expectations."

Dr. Loeb cocked her curly head. "Do you feel safe in your current routine?"

Ziva hesitated. "Mostly. I am alone much of the time as Tony is working long hours." Her shoulders curled and her head tilted down. "I prefer to go to Gibbs' house during the day, even if they are not home."

"It's a safe place," she confirmed.

"Yes."

"What about before Sara, Ziva? Was Gibbs' house still a safe place?"

She did not mention Ari. "Yes. Always."

"What about when you were still with NCIS? Where did you find your safe place?"

She swallowed noisily. "I do not know. I have always enjoyed my condo. I put quite a lot of work into making it…_heimish_. Cozy, yes? But Gibbs' house is where we gather as people rather than as investigators. It feels like we are a family. I like that very much."

"Do you think of Gibbs as a father figure?"

She shrugged. "He is an excellent father to Sara. He provides a very safe and nurturing environment for her."

Dr. Loeb narrowed her kind brown eyes. "That didn't answer my question, Ziva."

She sniffed. "Possibly. He was a very good mentor to me when I was an agent."

"Does he keep you safe?"

Ziva didn't flinch. "Yes."

"Did your father keep you safe?"

Ziva straightened up. "We were not discussing Eli."

"Eli? That's his name? You've only referred to him as _my father_ since we started our sessions."

"I do not wish to discuss him."

Dr. Loeb held up her palms. There was a pen woven between the fingers of her left hand. _Like McGee_, Ziva thought dully. "Just answer that question and I won't press the issue. Did your father keep you safe? I'm talking about when you were little."

"I was never _little_," she snorted. "And no, he did not. My safety was never his priority. He put me in many difficult and dangerous situations with no concern for my health or well-being."

"From what I understand about your service history I feel that you went great lengths to please him. Is that true?"

"My father is a demanding personality. He did not raise me, he _trained_ me."

The doctor let her breathe for a moment but wasn't about to miss an opportunity. "Did you spend a lot of time with him?"

Ziva shook her head, scornful. "He preferred that I stayed out of his way unless he was giving me lessons in marksmanship or martial arts. Even those he left to an expert once I attained a certain skill level."

"What about those time when you were only a little girl who wanted her father's attention?"

"I was never _little_," Ziva said again, deflating a little. "And I knew to stay away unless I had been summoned."

Dr. Loeb smiled. "You _were_ little, Ziva. Everyone was. What about when you were sick or had gotten hurt? Who took care of you?"

She hugged her broken arm to her side. "I was quite a resilient child. I did not get sick or injured often."

"Who took care of you?"

She shifted and picked at the lining of her cast. "I did, I suppose. I kept to myself."

"Why?"

She looked out the window. The session had intensified quickly and she was struggling to maintain her self-control. "I do not know."

Dr. Loeb was not about to let her fortify the emotional walls yet again. "Well, if you didn't seek help when you needed it, and you didn't seek attention unless someone bestowed it upon you, then I can gather that you did not feel safe. What were you hiding from?"

Ziva's eyes grew wet. "My father is not a kind man."

"Did he hurt you?"

"He punished me when I committed misdeeds."

Dr. Loeb dropped her voice. "Did he hurt you?"

"I thought it was normal."

"Thought _what_ was normal?"

She tugged a tissue from the box and used it to wipe her eyes. "I did not understand that my father was cruel. I never spent time in any of my classmates' homes, so I did not have any measure by which to gauge his mistreatment. But often he shouted at me, belittled me, scolded me severely for things that I learned later were relatively minor infractions."

"You got in big trouble for minor kid stuff. Textbook child abuse."

She paled at the word _abuse_. "It wasn't all terrible, I just had to live up to his expectations."

"And what happened if you didn't?"

"He would be disappointed and angry."

"What happened _to you_, Ziva?"

"He would take my toys away, or shun me, or call me names in front of my mother or the housekeeper. Sometimes he would pull me out of bed to do meaningless, mindless tasks. Once I went to bed without putting my shoes away and he got me up—it had to have been two or three in the morning—and made me put them in the closet. I apologized, like always, but he took my shoes out of the closet, threw them back on the living room floor, and made me put them away again. So I did, and I apologized again, but he wasn't satisfied. He made me do it over and over again, scolding me the whole time for being lazy and forgetful. He said I was an embarrassment to all the hard work he did for his family and his country. I was so tired when he finally left me alone that I got into bed and cried. He changed his shirt, drank his coffee, and went back to the office like nothing had ever happened."

Dr. Loeb cocked her head. "That's terrible. How old were you?"

"Four."

She nodded, troubled. "And how did you feel when that was happening?"

"Confused. I did as he asked and I promised to never, ever be so irresponsible again, but he still made me do it over and over. Was I so stupid that I couldn't just be told one time?

Dr. Loeb leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "I'm sorry he made you feel that way."

Ziva took a breath. "My father worked long hours. He often came home very late and very angry."

"And he took it out on you."

She shrugged. "Like I said, I did not understand that it was wrong. I wasn't permitted to play with other children outside of school. I did not attend birthday or holiday parties, nor we did not visit anyone on Shabbat. I had no idea that fathers did not ridicule their children, or keep them up at night, or call them names. I learned that much later and by then there was nothing I could do to reclaim my childhood. I was already a soldier. A killer."

The doctor nodded. "You didn't mention your mother anywhere in that story. Didn't she wake up when her eldest child was being harangued and dragged about the house in the middle of the night, and for a ridiculous offense?"

Ziva was appalled at the insinuation and her voice rose, unchecked. "My mother was a very kind and compassionate woman and I was not yet the eldest; Tali had not been born."

"I have been a psychiatrist for a long time. In my experience, I've found that there are two main responses from a non-abusive parent: either they protect the child by placing themselves in harm's way, or they are impotent against the perpetrator and allow the child to be abused."

Ziva shut her mouth, breathing heavily. "She _was _a good mother and she did protect us when she could. She died when I was twelve, but when I was nine she left my father. She took Tali and me and moved into a small apartment in her parent's building in Hertzaliya. I remember that first night. My grandmother made Persian rice and lamb stew for dinner—she kept it warm on the stove for us—then we went upstairs to our own place straight away. It was late and we were tired. We slept on mattresses on the floor because we did not have beds yet." Her features softened and she smiled wryly. "It was the first time I was ever permitted to sleep when it was dark and wake when it was light. I slept so late that my grandfather had already been on his morning walk to buy bread and the newspaper. I was upset—I liked to go on that walk with him—but he gave me a hardboiled egg and some sweet tea and called me _Ziva'jan_, which is a term of endearment in Farsi. I'd never had a pet name before."

Dr. Loeb took a note in her file. "Your grandfather sounds like a special man. What was his name?"

"Ezra. He was. He was a professor of Persian literature at Bar-Ilan University. I have always loved to read. He knew that. He would buy them for me and we would we spent many hours discussing books on Shabbat, sitting in lounge chairs by the pool and drinking tea. Always tea. Coffee was for revolutionaries, he said."

Dr. Loeb nodded. "You are very bright, Ziva. Was your grandfather a safe person?"

"Yes," she breathed happily. "He was kind and caring and very quiet. He never raised his voice, even if we were walking in the street and it was noisy. I had to strain to hear him. He would tilt his head down like this," she demonstrated, cocking her head, "when we went anywhere together."

"Where did you go with him?"

"No place far—the market, the bookstore, occasionally to the butcher, which I did not like. It smelled terrible and the flies…" She made a face.

"You don't have to go far to make an outing special. And how about you and Sara and Gibbs? Do you take these things together?"

Ziva frowned. "Sara is in a lot of pain. She no longer walks, so trips to the market needs to be either without her, or with an extra person—one to carry her or push the stroller, and another to choose the items and put them in the cart."

"Sounds complicated."

She shrugged. "We have gotten used to it. She used to enjoy going places but she does not, now, because she hurts. People tend to stare…with the feeding tube and the brace she wears. She gets nervous. She pulls down the sun visor when she feels overwhelmed."

Dr. Loeb clicked her tongue. "Poor kid. Sounds like she's not coping very well. Is she still seeing her own therapist?"

"Every other day. She's happy when I'm at home with her."

"I'm sure she feels much safer away from prying eyes. You speak so tenderly about her—she sounds like a little doll."

Ziva cocked her head, brows knitted. "Sara is quite small. I did not realize just how undersized she was until Tim informed me that she is approximately the same size as a one-year-old." She looked deliberately at her therapist with wide, bewildered eyes. "She is _five."_

Dr. Loeb smiled. "That's a little anxiety-producing but I trust that she is in many good hands. Will you be seeing her this evening?"

Ziva's shoulders relaxed for the first time since the session began. "Yes. We're having dinner together. It will probably be out last family picnic of the season. Tony will have to take the hammock down before the rains come."

The doctor eyed her appreciatively at the mention of Tony's name. "Does Tony encourage you to spend time with Gibbs and Sara?"

"He knows why I like to be there. He drops me off before work and picks me up when he's finished. He is very busy now, with his promotion, so I'm often there until after Sara goes to bed."

"He's not jealous?"

She shook her head. "He's there as much as I am. He revels in the chance to play with Sara—Tony can be a big kid—so things like building bricks and sensory play are exciting for him. His childhood was short. I think he's trying to reclaim something."

"And what are you doing in the hours you spend with Sara?"

Ziva's eyes hardened. "For her I am making the world safe."

. . . .

Sara's "bad days" were growing more frequent. Some were fine—she'd go to school, nap, and eat with her usual enthusiasm—but most were spent in Gibbs' arms from sunup to sundown, riding out waves of pain while he watched ZNN or perused classic car magazines. Occasionally he would hold her and pace, hoping the motion would put her to sleep or something close to it. He would walk in circles around the house while Sara lazed bonelessly in his arms, sucking her thumb and staring vacantly into the middle distance.

That was how Tony and Ziva found them, having let themselves in after a short trip to the supermarket. Gibbs was in the living room, humming under his breath, swaying side-to-side, and holding Sara like a sack of potatoes. She was semi-conscious, staring out the side windows with blank seawater eyes.

Ziva pushed Tony toward the kitchen and directed him, wordlessly, to start dinner preparations.

Gibbs gave her a small smile. "Doing ok, David?"

"I am fine," she whispered, and put her hand on Sara's chest. "You are having a difficult day?"

He didn't need to answer the question. "Nurse is coming in an hour with the heavy stuff. I haven't been able to put her down all day. Woke up screaming at five this morning and," he paused to shrug. "That was it."

"That is terrible," she mourned, studying the two of them. Her heart twisted a little; her session with Dr. Loeb had left her raw and insecure. Would it have been too much for Eli to brush her hair away from her face, as Gibbs did to his own daughter, and kiss her brow? She looked away self-consciously.

"What?" Gibbs asked softly. "Why do you look so pissed?"

"I'm not," she said quickly. "I feel terribly that Sara is in so much pain. Carry her upstairs for me—I'd like to read her a story before the nurse arrives."

He followed her up the steps without a word, laying Sara on the guest bed and propping her with pillows. She turned her face to Ziva, sighed, and closed her eyes.

"I am sorry you are in so much pain, _shaifeleh_. Would you like me to read?"

She blinked. "No. Just pictures."

Ziva lay down next to her and held _Owl Moon_ open to the first page. "Can you tell me a story about these pictures?"

Sara blinked again. "M'going owling with Daddy."

"When?"

"Dunno. But we'll do it." She winced and gripped the left hinge of her brace, grunting in pain.

Ziva put the book down and turned on her side. "Maybe we should just have quiet time."

"Yeah," she agreed, and wrapped a hand around Ziva's broken wrist. "You fingers came out."

"Some of them. The broken fingers are still inside. I got red and purple to match your favorite legwarmers."

Sara offered a small smile. "I like being like you, Zeeba."

Ziva ignored how her heart twisted again. "_Toda, motek_. That is a very kind thing to say."

She held out her hands. "Can you hold me?"

"Of course. Roll yourself this way and I will catch; I cannot lift you with one arm."

Sara rolled into her lap, paused to pant through the pain, then relaxed and put her thumb in her mouth. Ziva held her close and ran her fingers through her dark curls, gently untangling snarls. The only sound was that of the blinds bumping against the window frame—it was open to allow some fresh air in the small room. Fall was creeping closer; afternoons were shorter and cooler. Dinner would be eaten in twilight.

Sara and Ziva dozed together until Gibbs appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted and a little relieved. "Nurse is here," he announced. "Time for Sara to go to bed." He stepped in and lifted her off the mattress. Ziva looked at him blankly and he frowned. "I'll be back for you, Ziver."

She dozed again while he was gone and jerked awake when he put a hand on her arm. "How is she?"

"Fine. Sleeping now. And eating. The drugs work fast."

"She is getting the relief she deserves," she murmured, and slid over so he could join her on the bed.

He sat carefully with his back to her and turned to study her face. "You've been lookin' at me funny all day."

"I have not been here all day," she quipped back. "And I do not know what you mean by _funny_."

"You were staring."

She sat up, embarrassed again and frustrated. "I was not _staring. _ I was…watching."

"For what?"

"To see if…there was something I missed." Gibbs stayed quiet, waiting for her to speak again. "I talked about my father during my session today. Dr. Loeb called him an abuser."

He shrugged. "He was."

"She also asked me if I thought of you as a father-figure."

"Do you?"

She narrowed her eyes and turned her shoulders away from him. "It is possible."

He kissed her temple. "I'm honored. You hungry?" Ziva narrowed her eyes again and he pointed a warning finger at her. "Don't you dare say no."

"I will meet you downstairs," she acquiesced. "I will say goodnight to Sara first."

"Ok," he permitted warily. "But don't get her out of bed. Took me fifteen minutes to get her comfortable."

"I will not. I'm sure you are ready for her to have this operation."

Yeah, well, I'm not ready for my kid to spend four months in a body cast. Say goodnight quick—food's waiting."

He kissed her head again and she stepped across the hall into Sara's room. The feeding pump blinked and clicked. Yitzi was curled at the foot of the bed, twitching his ears at the birds calling in the elm tree. Sara was still awake, gazing around the room, finally peaceful and drifting on codeine.

"I came to say _laila tov_, _shaifeleh_," Ziva whispered. She bent and rested her cheek on her cool brow. "I love you very much. Sleep well."

"Love you, too," she slurred around her thumb. "You see my Daddy." It wasn't a question.

"I will, sweet girl. Goodnight."

Sara promptly slept, face turned toward the window.

Downstairs, Ziva helped herself to chicken and yellow rice. Tony nuzzled her neck as she spooned zucchini onto her plate.

"You're staying here tonight, aren't you?" He smiled generously and poured her a glass of water.

"If you don't mind," she mumbled, taking a sip.

"Why would I?"

She sat at the dining table and picked up her fork. "We do not get much time for _us_ when I stay the night."

Tony shrugged. "We have our whole lives for _us._" He kissed her lips but she jerked away, still chewing. "Chicken-y," he teased.

She swallowed. "You cannot wait until I've had dinner?"

He kissed her again, impatiently. "Nope. Not when I don't get you to myself tonight."

"You said…"

"I know. And I meant it. Should I get Yaffa or do you want me to just feed her?"

Gibbs cuffed the back of his head. "Go get her. Don't know why I don't just keep the damn cat. She's here more than she's at your place, Ziver."

Ziva pushed the last few grains of rice onto her fork and fought against wave of possessiveness. "She is mine," she muttered darkly.

Tony ran a hand down her back. "I know," he whispered and dug his car keys from his pocket. "Ok so cat, kibble, cast protector, and a change of clothes. Anything else?"

"No," she said lightly, casting a glance toward Gibbs' shadow in the kitchen. "That is all. Thank you, Tony."

He kissed her a third time and left, careful not to let the front door slam.

. . . .

Gibbs woke with a snort, certain the high, thin cry had come from Sara's room. He sighed when it happened again and stumbled from beneath the blankets, bound for the guest room.

Ziva was sitting up amidst the bedclothes, eyes wide, hair a wild halo around her head. She was panting slightly, staring at nothing, and gripping her arm as if it hurt. He put both hands on the decorative footboard, keeping his distance until she lowered her guard.

"I did not mean to wake you," she muttered lowly. "Is Sara still asleep?"

"Yeah. You have a nightmare?"

She nodded, eyes averted. "Please, Gibbs, go back to bed. I am fine."

"You don't look fine, David." He handed her the glass of water from the nightstand. "Drink." She obeyed, only half-present, and handed it back to him. "Now tell me what happened," he ordered gently.

Ziva blinked at him, forehead creased. "It was a simple nightmare."

"Gathered that. About what?"

"I cannot remember."

"Bull," he swore placidly.

She shifted uncomfortably and dragged one of the pillows under her arm. "My father used to taunt me," she started slowly. "He would pick up Tali, hold her, play with her, while I watched. He never offered the same affection to me. Sometime he held her with one arm and punished me with the other." He voice rose slightly and she held up her good hand in a gesture of utter confusion. "And then he would comfort her as if it was my fault. He should have put her down first."

"He should have kept his hands off you," Gibbs corrected.

"He dragged me by the hair once," she blurted, unchecked. "My mother cut it short after that."

He snorted in disbelief. "You had short hair. When?"

"I was three. I had a little bowl cut, but my hair has always been a little unmanageable so it grew out again fast. I had long hair again by the time I started school. It hasn't really been cut since."

Gibbs' gut tossed as he pictured a grown man gripping a tiny toddler by the ponytail. Oddly, the child shared Sara and Ziva's features—the same unruly dark curls, the cupid's bow mouth. He pushed the anger aside and pulled her close. "He should have kept his hands off of you," he repeated. "But I bet you were adorable. You gonna be ok?"

"I am fine," she warbled and rubbed her forehead. "You should go back to bed."

He smoothed her wild curls away from her face and pressed a kiss to her brow, noting wordlessly that her skin was slightly damp and smelled like moisturizer. He pulled away to say 'goodnight' but a small voice cut him off before he could speak.

"Daddy? Zeeba?"

Ziva frowned. "I am sorry, Gibbs. I did not mean…"

"It's fine," he said quickly, and tightened his grip on her. "She's bound to be up at some point. The narcotics don't last all night."

The clock on the dresser read four nineteen. "You should go to her," she rasped guiltily. "She's uncomfortable."

He nodded and left the room.

Oddly enough, Sara wasn't crying, nor was she tense from pain. Gibbs picked her up carefully and scooped an armload of blankets to ward off the predawn chill.

"How do you feel, sweet pea?"

"Hurts," she said simply. "But M'ok. Where is Zeeba?"

"Trying to go back to sleep," he said firmly. "Like you should be."

"I wanna see her."

He pulled the IV stand next to the rocker and settled them both in it. "Nope. You have half an hour left on your timer. I'll unhook everything once it's done and _then_ you can see her."

She switched gears, irritated. "I need poppins." Gibbs handed her a penguin for each hand. She yawned and put her head on his chest. "I wanna have a good day."

"It will probably be better if you sleep a little more. I don't like it when you get up this early."

"You get up for running and I go with you."

She had a point. "I'm a grown up, sweet pea. I don't need as much sleep as you do. And most of the time you go back to sleep in the stroller."

She yawned again and fell silent, listening to the birds in the trees. Quiet thumps from the living room meant the cats were awake and wrestling. They'd be pestering Ziva for breakfast soon.

She poked her head in the door and smiled at the two of them in the rocker, cuddled beneath an afghan. "I will feed them," she whispered, motioning to the stairs. "And start the coffee. Will you be going back to bed?"

"No, but you will. Back in your rack, David."

Her mouth opened to protest, but a wide yawn usurped any verbal response. "Ok," she slurred, droopy-eyed, and shuffled back across the hall. The box spring squeaked and then there was silence again.

The feeding pump beeped once and turned off when the cycle finished. Sara was asleep on his chest, drooling and limp. It was real sleep this time; no narcotics, no sedatives, not even Tramadol cruised through her veins. He shifted her onto his lap to look closely at her face, making sure her legs weren't caught between him and the sides of the chair.

Sara's eyes were big and round, the lashes long, brows dark but narrow. Her nose was small and her mouth heart-shaped, puckered slightly in sleep. Her neck was a thin stalk, collarbones prominent through her pyjama top. Gibbs steadied her head with one hand, a little awed at the life in his hands, and used the other to disconnect the feeding tube, flush the line, and clamp the capped end to the shoulder seam of her shirt.

She stirred but didn't wake when Ducky came in for a brief checkup before heading to the morgue. He clicked his tongue and prodded her chest. "A tiny little bird."

"That fell out of the nest," Gibbs finished for him. "She's hurting, Duck."

"I believe I will speak to her surgeon. Perhaps we need to push the date forward a bit. She should not be suffering to this extent, Jethro."

"I know. You can call him today?"

"_You_ can," he chided delicately.

"I got my hands full with her. Haven't spoken to anyone in days that didn't come by the house. She's a mess."

Ducky nodded, worrying. "I will call as soon as office hours begin. What time did she awaken?"

"Around five every day since the tube went in." He gazed at her again, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I feel like I'm losing her."

"I know it is hard but I can assure you that you're not. I will speak to the doctor, however, and call you as soon as I can. How is dear Ziva?"

"Asleep as far as I know."

"Is she still struggling with the antidepressant medication?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Ask her. She told me she'd be ok. I'm holding her to it."

Ducky made an indecipherable face. "She is reconciling what it means to be human, not simply a soldier or a spy or an American government agent." He rose from his crouch and straightened his trousers. "You raise strong and competent children, Jethro. I've counseled you before in trusting your instincts. Can I get you anything before I leave?"

He smirked. "Coffee."

Ziva didn't fumble down the steps until Sara was finished with breakfast and playing quietly with her animals. She stomped into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, all ninja-stealth gone as she was still swimming up from from deep sleep.

"You did not wake me," she grumbled. "It is nearly eight, Gibbs. Why did you not wake me?"

"Have your coffee and relax, David. There's nothing wrong with sleeping past sunup."

She scowled at him accusingly. "I will not have time to do my stretching before my next school module opens."

"So do it after."

"No. I am having dinner with Tony."

"Knock off the whining," he ordered, recognizing Ziva's characteristic push-back. It was something she did when she feared she was too vulnerable and he too close. He kept up the ruse as a means to assure her that he wasn't going anywhere. "I can't catch a damn break."

Sara was quiet and watching them with wide green eyes. "Daddy?" She asked, voice high with concern.

"It's fine, sweet pea. We're just having a disagreement. Should we go to school today?"

"Yeah. Zeeba, don't be a grouch."

"I will try, _shaifeleh_. Will I see you after school?"

"Yeah, because you will be here on the computer. You need to do your work."

She chuckled. "I do. Have a good morning, _motek_. We will read together before you go down for a nap."

Her phone rang the instant Gibbs' car pulled out of the drive. "David," she answered blithely, opening the browser window on her laptop.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," Tony sang across the line. "How are you doing?"

She smiled. "I am fine, _motek_. We are still having dinner tonight?"

His voice softened. "Absolutely. I just had to call you, though. Something told me you had a rough night."

"Was that something named Leroy Jethro Gibbs?"

"Nope," he said too quickly. "But you're ok, right? Because I'll call off right now if you need me. Just say the word, Zee-vah."

It was tempting but so were a few hours of solitude. "Can you take a vacation day on Friday?" She asked hesitantly. "Maybe we could go for a hike in Rock Creek Park."

"I'd love to. But promise me no dead Marines. Or dead Airmen. Or dead Infantrymen. Or dead anyone. Friday is a no-corpse zone reserved just for us."

"I promise. Provençal tonight?

"I'll bouillabaisse with you anytime, baby. Love you."

"I love you, too," she replied and hung up.

The phone rang again as soon as she put it down. "David," she answered, irritated this time.

"Ziva," Eli David greeted sharply.

She swallowed to keep from growling. "What can I do for you, Papa?"

"I am calling to see if you have reconsidered your decision to leave NCIS."

"Why is it so important to you? Can't you send another liaison to do your bidding?"

"You are my daughter," he snarled. "There is fire in your blood and war in your belly. Go back to protecting your country. You will not survive as a civilian."

"You know nothing of my life here," she said calmly. "And no, I will not. Thank you, Papa. Goodbye."

"Ziva, don't you dare hang up on me again." His tone was dangerous enough to keep her on the line. "I am telling you—do not get complacent. Do not drop your guard."

"If there is a threat, Papa, you must tell me about it now. I am not interested in playing your games."

"Watch you tone, my daughter. You are not from a safe place. Please, I am asking you, reconsider even if it is for your own security."

Ziva took a steadying breath. "I am safe, Papa. Please do not call me again unless it is to warn me of an impending threat. Goodbye."

Gibbs slammed back through the front door before she had the chance to begin the day's work. Sara was sobbing in his arms-sobbing and _screaming_-and his eyes were hard blue. "We're here until the surgeon's office calls," he growled.

She held out her arms. "_Shaifeleh_, what happened?" She took Sara in her arms and rocked and cooed until the wails softened into hiccups.

Gibbs spoke from the kitchen, where he was making another pot of coffee. "I took a turn too hard and she just lost it. We're not going anywhere except to the hospital for surgery. I already talked to Duck. He and a home-care nurse are coming at eleven to remove the feeding tube."

Ziva kissed Sara's sweaty brow. "You are ok, sweet girl. The tube will come out and you will be much happier." She snuffled in response, gripping Ziva's shirt with a tiny iron fist.

"You stay, Zeeba," she cautioned tearfully. "You stay here. Don't let Daddy throwing you away."

"I will not, _shaifeleh_. And your Daddy will not throw anyone away."

"Nope," he agreed, handing Sara a sip-cup of juice. "Never."


	7. Better

__**Been too long, huh? Yeah. Sorry. I still love you. Be good to yourselves.**

_You're getting sadder and I don't understand._

_ But if I kiss you where it's sore will you feel better?_

_ -Regina Spektor, "Better."_

Sara was medicated and asleep in Gibbs' arms when the NG tube came out. Pixie-like Nurse Karen dabbed salve on the deep red welts that the adhesive left on her cheek. She handed him six needleless syringes already loaded with powerful narcotic pain medication and had him scrawl his signature on a release form.

"Don't be afraid to use these," she said lowly. "The anti-emetic will work all day and night. The drugs will give her a chance to rest before surgery."

He nodded, feeling relieved and a little numb. "Have Dr. Mallard put them in her bag."

Ducky was bustling about, packing supplies for a short trip to Children's. Gibbs and Sara were headed to the hospital for pre-op x-rays and blood work, but only because the nurse had assured him that she'd be home to sleep in her own bed that night.

Ziva peeked in from the dining room. "Shall I go with you?"

He sighed, torn between wanting the company and wanting to give her the quiet time to do schoolwork. "No, Ziver. Stay home. We'll be back in a few hours."

She nodded, unconvinced. "I will work today, then, but tomorrow I will wait with you while she's in surgery."

"Gonna be a long day," he warned, pausing to shift Sara into a more comfortable position. "Eight hours, minimum."

"I will bring my computer in case," she conceded. She looked down at Sara and back at his face. Her dark eyes were liquid. "You should go."

Ducky handed him a bag loaded with snacks, medication, blankets, a clean outfit, and Sara's bunny. "Please call when you have an update, Jethro."

He nodded, took the bag, and hitched his daughter up on his shoulder. "Back as quick as we can," he rasped, and left.

Ducky straightened his shirt. "Ziva, dear, I need to go to the morgue. Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Is your arm healing well?"

She smiled. "I am fine, Ducky. Go to your work and I will go to mine."

He returned the smile. "Very well then. I know you're worried about little Sara. Take comfort in the fact that Dr. Minton is the preeminent physician in pediatric orthopedics. The poppet will be fine." He patted her arm. "Good day, my dear. Work hard."

She picked up her cell as soon as he left. Tony answered on the first ring. "I'm just doing paperwork," he said through a smile. "I can shove off for the day if you'd like."

She couldn't return the romantic overture. "Sara is having her operation tomorrow."

She heard him swallow tightly. "Tomorrow? Why?"

"They came home after I spoke to you. She was screaming in pain. The nurse and Ducky came, took away the feeding tube, and gave her a lot of medication. They went to the hospital for her perioperative consultation."

"Oh, man," he said softly. "Are they keeping her overnight?"

"No, she will be home later. Gibbs would not let them admit her. The nurse gave him medication for her and told him not to be shy about using it. I think the idea is to keep her sedated until after the operation."

"Are _you_ ok?" He blurted. "I'll come home; just say the word."

"I am fine," she said tartly, more to herself than him. "I am going to do my trigonometry lesson and you will come tonight and take me out to dinner. Provençal, as I requested two hours ago."

"Ok." His tone was mild. "The reservation is for seven. You need me to bring you something to wear? Is there an LBD tucked in with all those fatigues?"

"I'm not in the mood to joke."

"Don't shut down on me. I was being serious—what should I bring?"

"There is a dress and a jacket hung on the bathroom door. I love you. See you tonight."

He made a smacking kiss-noise into the receiver. "Me, too. Bye."

. . . .

Dr. Sheehan followed Dr. Minton into the exam room, where Gibbs was holding a cotton ball to the puncture in the crook of Sara's elbow. She'd slept right through the blood draws and was about to sleep through the consultation.

Dr. Minton stuck Sara's x-ray images on the lightboard. The pins in her pelvis were still there—long, white sticks through the crests of her hipbones—and the surgeon made a circle on the image with a red wax pencil.

"Sara's left him is completely subluxed. Furthermore, there are a number of small stress fractures in the femoral neck which are definitely the sources of the pain. We can take off her hip abductor brace; it can't do its job any longer."

Dr. Sheehan helped Gibbs ease Sara back on the table. "I'll take it for you. She won't need it any more."

"How did she get stress fractures?" Gibbs barked. "

"Her hips need to be repaired straight away," Dr. Minton said urgently . "I am concerned, though—there are two fractures in her pelvic ring that haven't closed yet. Do you know if she has a history of delayed union?"

Gibbs met his eyes with a blank blue stare. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Does it take her a long time to heal?"

"I just got her eight week ago, Doc, and she'd been beaten within an inch of her life. How should I know that?"

Minton nodded, thinking. "What about the rest of her injuries? Does she still complain of pain or demonstrate guarding behavior?"

"She says he belly hurts under the incision but rarely complains about her arm or collarbone. She had broken ribs, too, but she didn't say much after the first two weeks. She only complains of real pain in her hips."

Dr. Minton scratched a note in Sara's records. "Does she give any specifics? Point?"

Gibbs picked her back up and let her hair tickle his neck. "Left side, but that's it."

"No low back pain or knee pain?"

"Nope."

The doctor sighed. "I'm worried that we're missing something with Sara. The developmental delays and slow growth have me troubled."

Gibbs gave him a hard look. "How troubled?"

"Sara's global delays, small stature, and these recent stress fractures make me think she has a metabolic condition. I'd like to take a few blood and tissue samples to get a proper diagnosis. Would you be all right with that?"

His anger flared and with it came fear. "What do you think is wrong with her?"

Dr. Sheehan stepped in. "We're trying to figure that out, Gibbs. If she _does _have a problem then it's probably a mild one. Can we take the samples so we can figure it out?"

He nodded, absently holding Sara closer. "Yeah, but she's got meds in her system. Don't you want to wait until it clears out? Maybe after surgery?"

Sheehan patted his arm. "We know what we're looking for."

More blood was drawn from Sara's elbow and again she slept through it. The tissue sample was retrieved easily from the back of her hand; the puncture was so small it didn't even require an adhesive bandage. Gibbs made them give her one anyway.

Dr. Minton labeled the vials with Sara's name, birthdate, and hospital ID number. "Well," he said with finality. "She's cleared for surgery and we have an OR open tomorrow at 8 am. Be on the floor by seven and give her the sedative the nurse provided by six o'clock. Keep her comfortable. Does she know what's going on?"

"She knows she's having surgery," Gibbs said softly. "And that it's going to hurt."

"We promise to do our best to manage her pain. Does she know about the hip spica cast?"

Gibbs nodded, frowning, and rocked Sara a little.

Dr. Sheehan put a hand on his arm. "Sometimes parents have a harder time with the cast than the children do . Is there anything I can do to help you transition?"

"We're fine," he said, and tried to believe his own words. "Can I take her home now?"

Both doctors nodded. Dr. Sheehan spoke again. "Make sure you read over the pamphlets we gave you; they'll teach you what do to for daily care until the occupational therapist comes around, post-op. Good luck and I'll stop by the hospital once she's in a room of her own."

. . . .

Abby and Tim struggled through Gibbs' front door with fifteen freezer-safe containers, each one containing a meal to be eaten as Sara recovered. They'd read online that the first weeks would be hard, so the two of them—with Tony and Ziva's help—planned, shopped, and prepared meals in advance so Gibbs would have one less thing to worry about. The online reports had been fairly dismal; Sara would be in pain, immobile, and more than likely angry about it. With their cache secured in the freezer, they tiptoed into the living room and found Tony plopped morosely on a giant beanbag chair, arms crossed, chin on his chest.

Tim wasn't in the mood for a conflict. He busied himself with organizing the supplies that Gibbs had carelessly tossed in the dining room as he'd rushed to pack. Altered clothing, pillows, toys, and medication were in heaps on the table and sideboard. Tim made neat piles and dug for a notepad to label them. _Home_, one read. Another, _hospital_. A third was _Surprises_—they'd rotate Sara's toy supply to keep creative play fresh.

Abby threw herself down on the couch and made a face. "Ugh, it's stressful in here," she complained, throwing her arms out. "Terribly stressful. Like..._oppressive_. What is going on?"

"I don't _know_," Tony huffed, throwing his hands in the air. "One minute Ziva's begging me to help her, the next she's yelling at me for trying. I can't do anything right."

She doubted that. "Where is she now?"

"Downstairs," he whined. "She won't talk to me."

"I'll try to put the fire out. Where are Gibbs and Lambykins?"

He pointed at the ceiling. "He's putting her in bed. She's been asleep all day, I heard. Drugged."

"Probably better that way," she said sadly, and headed downstairs.

Ziva was standing at the workbench, wearing a beautiful dark jersey-knit dress, arms crossed in her almost comical broken-wing way. Her jacket had been tossed over the whalebones of Gibbs' latest project.

Abby stopped just out of arm's reach and wrung her hands. "Are you ok?"

Ziva shook her head.

"Are you angry with Tony?"

She shook her head again.

"Can you just tell me why you're so pissed? I don't want to say the wrong thing and end up with you mad at me, too."

She swallowed and Abby realized that she'd been crying. A short silence passed before she whispered. "I failed."

Abby jerked back, puzzled. "What? Ziva David doesn't fail at anything."

Ziva steadied herself with a deep breath. "I finished my trigonometry coursework. I do a module every day, and today I took a practice exam and failed. I'm very disappointed in myself. I tried to explain it to Tony but he didn't seem to understand."

Abby wrapped her arm around Ziva's shoulders. "You got pretty upset with him. Can you tell me why?"

She huffed, remorseful. "I regret how I reacted but he cannot seem to understand that I look to him for constructive criticism. I wanted him to look over the test—I printed a copy for him—to see what I had done incorrectly, but he just laughed and said it was fine. It was _not_ fine. I wanted him to help me improve."

She found herself pulled into a tight hug, face pressed hard to Abby's shoulder. "Let me look at it," she said quietly. Ziva held back, nervous. "I won't judge you. I won't be mad. Just let me see so we can work together."

She handed over the papers and crossed her arms again, looking away.

Abby skimmed it, flipping pages slowly at first, then faster. "What do you mean _failed, _Ziva? You missed nine questions out of a hundred."

She almost stomped in frustration. "Yes, and that is a failure rate of nearly ten percent. It's unacceptable."

"Not at all. In most American schools this would be an A. Or close enough to get the teacher to round up."

Ziva wheeled on her, breathing fast, eyes blazing, though her voice was oddly flat. "Anything less than perfection is failure."

Abby took a step backward and allowed another silence, this once longer and heavier. She waited for Ziva's panting to slow and her posture to slump before speaking again. "Whose words are those, Ziva?"

"Mine," she said thickly.

"Whose?"

She hung her head. "I disappointed my father often. I suppose I still do—he has called twice to shame me for quitting NCIS."

Abby wrapped her in a tight hug again and used her palm to force Ziva's head to her shoulder. "It's ok," she whispered. "I'm proud of you. Does Tony know that your father has been calling you?"

"Yes. Well…no. I did not tell him about today. He was stressed about Sara's operation. He is worried."

"Yes, and he's worried about you. Why don't you go back upstairs and tell him what happened? He'll understand."

"No he will not," she replied thickly. "This kind of schooling is second nature to him. How can he understand what it's like to be almost thirty years old and performing at the level of a teenager?"

Abby scowled. "Is that how you see this? Ziva, that's not true. This is hard work—many people don't ever accomplish this level in math, and not in one day. Go a little easier on yourself. And you should tell him that Ol' Papa David called. He'd want to know."

"I can handle him myself, Abby."

"Yeah, you _can_ but you _shouldn't_. Being engaged to someone means you share this kind of stuff. Let him stick up for you—he'd love it."

Ziva shook her head. "I should apologize for my behavior. That was the wrong way to react."

"He's more confused than hurt. You don't have to apologize but I think explaining might help."

A small smile ghosted across her face. "He is pouting."

Abby grinned. "In a giant beanbag chair. Where did that come from?"

The smile disappeared. "It is for Sara. The doctor provided pamphlets for post-surgical care and one of them recommended a large beanbag as a place for her to play and rest. It provides many different options for positioning."

"She's going to get lost in that thing—it's _huge_. I guess that will keep her from laying on the hard floor in that hard cast." She sighed. "My poor little lambykins."

Ziva allowed herself to be pulled in for another hug. "She will be fine."

Tony was still slumped in the beanbag when she got upstairs. A football game droned in the background and Tim could be heard in the dining room, muttering under his breath while he organized the hospital paperwork. She drew a deep breath and nudged Tony gently with her knee.

"I am sorry for how I acted," she said tersely. "I should not have gotten so angry with you. You were only trying to help."

He peered up at her with one eye. "You're apologizing?"

"I should not have gotten so angry," she reiterated. "That was unfair."

He sat up and rolled his head to work the kinks out of his neck. "Maybe I should've understood where you were coming from. You don't like to make mistakes, do you?"

Her features softened. "It has never been an option for me. Is it too late to go out?"

Tony checked his watch. "We missed our reservation by two hours. Maybe a burger at Geraldine's instead?"

Ziva nodded, biting her lip. "I think we should come back here afterward. I would like to sleep here tonight so that I can help Gibbs prepare Sara for surgery."

He kissed her mouth. "I'll stay, too. I'll crash on the couch in case she needs to be with you."

She shrugged into her jacket with his help. "You're being quite generous, Tony."

He winked. "C'mon. I'm starved."

. . . .

Gibbs had grown more accustomed to his child's nightmares than to his own. So when a particularly horrible dream involving, Sara, Ziva, Edward Godwin, and Saleem Ullman graced him with it's presence that night, he was unprepared to wake with his heart pounding and sweat beading on his brow and chest. His t-shirt was damp. He stripped it off, breathing hard, and sat shirtless in the cold fall night. He listened, calming himself; the house was silent with sleep.

He slid from the bed and padded across the hall to the guest room, where he paused with one hand on the doorknob. Ziva had been brutalized in his dream, bloodied almost beyond recognition by both Godwin and Ullman, right arm unsalvageable, left eye deadened in her shattered face. He ached for his sig and a finger of bourbon but pushed open the door instead, wincing when it squeaked on its hinges.

Inside, Ziva was sound asleep. Her curls were wild on the pillow, broken arm slung across her body like a shield. She was twisted in the quilts having obviously cocooned herself then overheated and tossed them asides. She was wearing one of Tony's old basketball t-shirts. It made her look like a high-school kid, not a federal agent and soon-to-be-married woman.

Time and her violent existence hadn't hardened Ziva; there were no lines around her eyes, worry had not dragged at the corners of her mouth. Her skin was smooth and even and bore relatively few scars, considering the years she spent at war for Israel and then for the US. Gibbs knew the real damage was beneath the surface. Her joints were that of a much older woman, her back and knees complained much like his own, and her hands were faintly gnarled with scars from fighting and shooting. She'd paid Eli's debts with her own body. _And mind__, _he reminded himself. He couldn't blame her for giving it up.

He closed the door, breathed a sigh of relief, and opened Sara's to find her right where he'd left her—asleep on her back and propped with a dozen pillows. She needed just the right position to be comfortable; knees slightly bend, back straight, hips seated in their sockets as best they could be. The medication was wearing off. He could see her eyelids flickering in the glow of the night light. Her mouth was moving around her right thumb and she slid one arm to a cooler spot on the sheet.

DiNozzo was thumping up the stairs with loose limbs and porcupine hair. "Boss," he whispered. "It's five-thirty. You need to give Sara the pre-op sedative."

Gibbs nodded his thanks and took the syringe he offered. "Baby girl," he whispered. "It's time to wake up." She grunted and opened her eyes. "Take this," he ordered gently.

She took the medicine without making a face. In a rare moment of lucidity she lifted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Zeeba?"

Tony shushed her. "Let her sleep. She's tired."

It didn't seem to matter. Ziva appeared in the doorway, wide awake and dressed for the day in jeans—_tight _jeans, he assessed silently—and a loose sweater. She bent to kiss Sara's cheek. "It is a big day, _shaifeleh_."

Sara just nodded and looked at Gibbs. "Yitzi is going to be ok?"

"He'll be fine," he promised gently. "We need to go soon, sweet pea."

She nodded again, but sadly.

Tony picked her up and wrapped her in a sage green throw. "Ziva and Daddy are going to be with you the whole time. I'm going to work, but I'll be there as soon as you're done."

She put her head on his shoulder. "I'll being brave."

He kissed her ear. "Don't be. You can scream your face off if you feel like it."

Sara pulled back and looked at him quizzically. "Nuh uh."

"Yep," he confirmed. "You can scream and throw things and make a huge scene if you want. There are two rules, though: no hurting yourself and no hurting anyone else."

She looked at Gibbs again and he just shrugged. "I'm not arguing."

"Ok," she replied softly. "I need two poppins and my bunny and then we can go."

The toys were furnished, the cat kissed on his fuzzy head, and bags were grabbed and stashed in the trunk of Gibbs' new SUV. He wanted the extra space in the backseat to accommodate Sara's bulky cast. There was also a chance that she'd need a new carseat—one much bigger and more cumbersome than the one she currently used.

Tony followed them out with Sara still in his arms. It was drizzling lightly, so he dropped one of Gibbs' NCIS windbreakers around her shoulders to keep her dry.

"I guess that's it," he said lamely, and tried to smile. "I'll catch you on the flipside, Buglet."

She nodded and looked uncertainly at Gibbs. "We'll going now."

He buckled her in and tucked the same throw blanket over her legs. Ziva got in the passenger seat and rolled down the window.

"Bye, Tony," she said quietly. "I will text you with updates."

"You'd better," he groused, but the smile he offered her didn't reach his eyes. "Be brave," he murmured. "I love you."

"Love you, too," she replied.

Gibbs made a face. "I don't even…nevermind. Get out of here, DiNozzo. You have work to do."

He saluted, watched them pull away from the curb, and pretended it was rain on his face rather than tears.

. . . .

The sedative served only to relax Sara, not to put her to sleep. She was quiet through yet another set of blood draws and x-rays, alternatively asking for her father and Ziva. It wasn't until Gibbs traded her ladybug pyjamas for a hospital gown that she grew agitated and scared. She mewled and cried for familiarity.

"I want to going home," she wailed weakly. "I want Yitzi."

Gibbs hushed her and let his heart break. "In a few days, baby girl. Once you're in your big cast and feeling better."

She switched gears. "I want Tony."

"He's at work. He'll come see you later tonight."

"I want Abby."

"Same as Tony, sweet pea. Would you like Ziva to hold you?"

"No," she wailed again, drawing the word out. "I want Tim McGee."

"McGee is at work, too. Everyone is at work that isn't here. They'll come see you tonight."

A nurse summoned Gibbs with instructions to bring Sara into the theater. Ziva stood with him and wiped her sweaty hand on her pants. She muttered a quiet blessing in Hebrew and kissed Sara's curls. "To my right Michael, to my left Gabriel, in front of me Uriel, behind me Rafael, and the presence of Hashem above my head. _Hazak u'baruch,_ my _shaifeleh. _I will wait for them to say you are fixed."

Sara blinked at her, stunned, and stopped crying. "I love you, Zeeba," she whispered. "Bye."

Gibbs just nodded and followed the nurse, back stiff. In the prep room he was told to don a protective gown and wash his hands with thick, yellow soap. The same nurse cradled Sara while he did so, and pointed to a rocking chair in the anteroom.

"Sit," she commanded gently. "And hold your baby. We won't do anything with needles until she's asleep from the gas. One more kiss, Papa, then I'll put the mask on."

He kissed Sara's mouth, then her nose, then her cheek. Her head drooped on his forearm. The nurse pressed a mask over her face. It took only a second for Sara's eyes to roll and her limbs to go limp. Her hand fell from his collar, where she'd been holding on with an intensity that was almost feral.

"Ok," the nurse said kindly. "One more kiss, Papa, then off you go to the waiting room. I'll be out every hour or two to give you an update."

Gibbs nodded mutely and kissed Sara's brow right over the thin, white scar where she'd received sixteen stitches from Edward Godwin. Another nurse, anonymous in scrubs and mask, showed him back out to the anteroom, where he tore off his sterile gown and burst into tears.

Ziva was standing rigidly in the waiting room when he got there, having barely pulled himself together before an aide kicked him out. Her eyes were blank and wet and her arms were crossed awkwardly in front of her.

"We wait," she said simply.

"We do," he agreed, but his tone did not match his crestfallen expression. She stepped into his arms without another word, understanding that he needed to hold her more than she needed to be held. His grip was fatherly, even possessive. They stood that way for several minutes, grateful for the privacy the empty room provided them.

Gibbs sniffed and pulled back. "You'll be ok, Ziver," he said firmly. "And so will Sara."

She gave him a quirked eyebrow. "Yes," she agreed. "We will be fine." She pulled her laptop out of her bag and opened it to the previous day's lesson. "Perhaps I should review before the next module opens at ten."

He nodded but didn't sit. "I'm gonna go find a coffee. You want anything?"

"The same. Thank you."

Gibbs headed down to the cafeteria, finding Ducky in the breakfast line with a small smile on his face. He masked his surprise with a patented stare.

"What are you doing here?"

"The principessa's operation is well underway, I suppose?"

"Yeah. I have an hour before the nurse comes out with an update. What's up?"

Ducky gave him an appreciative look. "I just wanted to be sure you were coping well with your daughter's surgery. You, as a parent, have a tremendous amount of control over what happens to tiny Sara. It must be difficult for you to surrender that to physicians and nurses."

Gibbs didn't growl. "I'm fine, Duck."

"You slept well last night?"

He couldn't lie. "No, but what father does when his kid is about to be cut open?"

"Is that how you think it, Jethro? Such violence."

He _did_ growl, then. "My daughter—the one I just got—is laying on a table while a man with a glorified hacksaw and a knife cuts through her skin and into her bones. She weighs twenty-four pounds and is less than three feet tall. _How_ is that ok?"

"It isn't," Ducky replied simply. "But she was in tremendous pain. Allowing her to suffer as she was is simply merciless."

Gibbs stared into his lidless coffee cup. "Yeah. The docs said yesterday that Sara might have a metabolic problem with her bones. What does that mean?"

The coroner nodded, lost in thought. "It would explain a lot of things but she has proven to be the toughest child I've ever met. Don't dwell on it, Jethro. Would you like me to accompany you back upstairs?"

He shrugged. "If you want. Ziva's waiting for me." He motioned with a second coffee.

"Speaking of tough birds," Ducky deadpanned, but said nothing further. They were in the elevator before he spoke again. "You are not hurting Sara, Jethro. In fact, quite the opposite. You are preventing much more pain and suffering in the future."

He nodded and tightened his grip on the coffees. "I had a nightmare last night. Sara and Ziva were both beaten half to death by Saleem and Godwin." He blew out a breath. "It was ugly."

"I'm sorry that happened to you but it was a manifestation of your anxiety. I'm sure things will calm down once Sara is back at home. Ziva, too. You provide stability for her that no one has, yet. She and the principessa share many similar characteristics, don't they?"

Gibbs nodded, smiling a little. "They do." He strode out of the elevator and into the waiting room, where Ziva was tensely waiting for the next lesson to open. He handed her the cup and sat down as she thanked him with a sigh.

Ducky patted her shoulder. "A good morning to you, dear Ziva. May you have only success in your lessons. Jethro, take care of yourself and your tiny girl. I will see you soon."

. . . .

Rina, the head surgical nurse, slipped through the swinging double doors and yanked down her surgical mask. Her eyes were big and blue behind her protective goggles. It was their second update in four hours. The first hadn't been fabulous; Sara's iliofemoral ligament was loose and it took an extra hour to cut and tighten the fibers so the femoral head wouldn't slip once the new socket was created.

"I need to get back in, but I wanted to stop out and say we're almost done on the left side. It was difficult, but she's looking great and should heal nicely. Dr. Minton will make the incision on the right side in another twenty minutes or so."

Gibbs and Ziva blew out hard sighs of relief. She sent out a text to her former team members while he nodded and swilled more cold coffee.

"She's doing ok?" He almost begged. "Stats are good?"

Rina smiled. "She's doing beautifully. I'll let you know when the right side is well underway."

She disappeared again. Abby tiptoed out of the elevator before the doors stopped swinging, carrying two paper lunch bags and looking nervous.

"Hi," she chirped sadly. "Tony sent me with lunch for you guys. You should eat." She handed over the bags and stood back, wringing her hands. "She's ok, right? Someone came out with an update?"

Gibbs was surprisingly hungry. He stuffed pastrami on rye in his mouth and spoke around it. "She's doing fine, Abbs. Nurse came out a second ago and said they were switching sides."

"Yay!" She cheered, bouncing a little. "Halfway there."

Ziva sipped thoughtfully on Italian wedding soup. "Do not count your chickens, Abby." She looked at Gibbs to see if she'd gotten the idiom right. He gave her a curt nod and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

"I'm not," she said defensively. "I'm just being positive. Need any help with school? I have another half an hour before I have to be back at the lab."

"I am fine," she said quickly. "I have finished the mathematics module and moved on to world history. The French Revolution is not so complicated as pre-calculus."

"Ok, then. _Vive la France_. Call me if you need me." She hugged both of them tightly and slipped out, humming.

It was a slow afternoon; one tainted with worry and fear. Ziva finished her lesson and the qualifying practice test, Gibbs flipped through old magazines and the newspaper. Bored and uneasy, they lapsed into silence broken only by the occasional sigh or shifting of limbs. They received only one update after Abby left, and it was much the same: _worse than we thought, work is difficult, Sara's a trooper._

Rina popped back out at six, tired but smiling. "We're closing her up. The right side was a little easier, but everything is nice and tight now so there won't be any pain in the future."

Gibbs, startled, popped out of his chair like a cork from a bottle of champagne. "When will I see her?"

Ziva noted that he wasn't asking for permission. She busied herself with putting her book and laptop back in her bag.

"Another hour," Rina told him happily. "She'll be in recovery as soon as the sutures are in. I'll get you as soon as I can. You two look pretty wiped out. Have a soda or a candy bar while you wait."

She slid back through the swinging doors and Ziva raised her eyebrows. "A nurse telling us to have candy and soda? She will be fired."

The team trickled in with nervous faces. Tim sat down next to Gibbs and pulled out the folder of hospital pamphlets to review Sara's postop care. Tony offered a canvas bag bearing the name of an organic grocer near Ziva's condo. "Here," he said sweetly, pressing a secret kiss to her mouth. "Have a candy bar or some soda. I got that healthy lime-flavored one you like."

She grinned to herself. "Thank you, _motek_. You had a good day?"

"Better than you," he snorted. "Seriously, though, my buglet is all right?"

"So the nurse says," she replied, shrugging.

He lowered his voice. "And you're ok?"

"I did not have surgery today, Tony."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "No, but we both know how it is. You're doing ok?"

Ziva nodded. "I am fine." She sipped her soda daintily and hummed.

Rina didn't bother to open the swinging doors, she just waved to Gibbs and smiled. He stomped through and demanded to see his daughter.

"Down here," she said, unbothered by his harsh tone. "She's just coming around."

He followed her down the corridor to the operating room, but she hung a left before the sterile field. Another, narrower hallway had small rooms—pods, really—on either side with a central nurses' station at the end.

Gibbs thought he'd prepared himself to see his baby so restrained, but Sara's cast was still a shock; it was more restrictive than any of the diagrams he'd been shown by McGee and the doctors. Sara was immobilized from ankles to armpits in thick, purple fiberglass. She was semi-reclined, semi-spread-eagled, and bent-kneed to keep her hips in proper alignment. He blinked back tears and stroked her cheek at the edge of the oxygen mask.

"Sar?" He said, voice breaking. "Wake up for me." He noticed the pulse-ox had been taped to her toe.

She came around easily, blinking and smiling up at him. "Daddy," she slurred dopily. "M'ok."

"I know," he replied. "You did great. I'm going to talk to the doctor and then we'll go to your room."

"Ok," she sighed, still blinking. "I wanna seeing Zeeba."

"You will," he assured her. "In just a little bit."

Dr. Minton was exhausted. His big shoulders were drooping and his hands were raw from so many hours in latex gloves. "She did it!" He said proudly, but faded out fast. "But I want to keep a very close eye on her. Her bones are soft and her connective tissues are much more lax than I would've expecged. I have a call into an orthopedic specialist who's a pro in pediatric bone structure. He'll be around to see her before she leaves the hospital."

Gibbs nodded, too tired to worry any more. "How's her pain?"

He smiled. "She's fine for now. She's receiving meds via pump right now and we'll keep her there for forty-eight hours post-op. It won't kill the pain completely but she should be comfortable. Keep an eye on her stats—sweating, swelling, tingling—any changes and call someone right away. Rina is making sure they have a cot ready for you. I think you and I will both crash tonight."

"When will she be transferred?"

He shrugged. "Talk to Rina. She can help you from here on out."

Gibbs offered his hand. "Thanks for everything, Doc. Really."

Minton returned the handshake. "You're welcome. Kiss that little girl for me; she's a cutie-pie."

He ducked back into the room, where Sara's head had slipped sideways on the pillow. She was drowsy but didn't appear to be uncomfortable.

"Hey, baby girl," he sighed. "I love you."

Hey, Daddy," she sighed back. "I love you, too." Her face fell as she realized where she was. She moaned, suddenly afraid. "_No, no no_. _I don't like this_." He shushed and stroked, but she ignored him, whimpering and fussing and batting at him with the hand not anchored to an IV board.

Gibbs gave up and summoned Rina. "She's really out of it. How do I help her?"

Her scrub top had two patch-pockets on the front. She reached into one, popped a plastic package in her hand, and stuck something in Sara's mouth. She went silent immediately and her eyes slid closed.

He was only faintly astonished. "Is that a _pacifier_?"

She smiled. "Is that your little girl _not scared anymore_?"

He dropped the subject. "Thanks," he sighed. "Thought she was gonna hurt herself."

"The anesthesia can make her a little edgy. Pacifiers and other soothers help. She's a thumb sucker?"

"How'd you know?"

She picked up the hand they'd strapped down. "She has the classic indentation at the base of her thumb. Keep her hands away from her mouth for the next few days. Lessens the chance of infection."

"And the nookie?" Gibbs complained.

The nurse smiled again. "Can be sterilized. We can probably move her now. You want to come with?" His glare was all the response she needed. "I'll tell the rest of your kids to meet us on the fourth floor. She'll be in four-nineteen."

He snorted. "Tell funny lookin' one to grab me a coffee."

She was nonplussed. "Which one?"

"Can't miss 'im," he replied, and turned back to Sara.

They all met him downstairs, exclaiming in shock at the sight of her cast.

"It's so _sad_," Abby simpered. "How can she be comfortable?" She tucked Sara's bunny in beside her. Oddly, it was wearing an outfit that looked like USMC dress blues.

Ziva stepped close to the bed and wove her good arm between the side rails. She stroked Sara's hair, hummed under her breath, then cocked her head and frowned. "Why is there a _motzetz_ in her mouth?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Nurse gave it to her. Said it helps with anxiety."

"It is calming her?"

He rolled his eyes. "Is she crying?"

She harrumphed quietly.

A new nurse stepped in. "I'm Shelly," she said kindly. "My aide is Joe. I'm on until midnight. Is everyone ok?"

Tim stood up. "Are we going to have to worry about positioning tonight?"

Shelly waved a hand uncertainly. "It's possible. I'll keep a close eye on her, of course, but as long as we keep shifting her pillow we won't have to worry about decubitus."

"Bedsores," Tim translated unnecessarily.

Abby grabbed his hand. "Is she going to be ok?"

As if cued by an invisible director, everyone looked at tiny Sara in her big bed. "Let me get her post-op films. We can take a look ourselves."

She poked four x-rays up on the in-room light board. "You can clearly see the hardware that is holding her femurs together. See how the femoral head is sitting fully inside the socket? That's how it's supposed to look. The pins behind should hold the acetabula together until the bone fuses. They can be removed when she's a little older. And a little bigger—what a peanut. Is she on a special diet?"

"No," Gibbs said quickly. "I add calories here and there to keep her weight up. She was on Tramadol and it killed her appetite for a few weeks before surgery. They put a feeding tube in her nose. I think she'll do fine once you taper off the narcotics."

She flipped through the chart at the computer terminal. "I see that in her history. They might do it again if her weight comes back down."

"Don't," he said tightly. "She won't take much by mouth. Said it makes her throat hurt."

Shelly backed off. "Ok, I won't mention it unless the doctor brings it up. Anyone need water or coffee?"

Heads shook. They were all fine. Nervous, sad, perhaps still a little scared. But fine.

Abby put a few picture books on the bedside table. "These are some of her favorites."

Gibbs gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Abbs. Go home. McGee—you, too. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Work. Just get out of here. Come back tomorrow."

Kisses and well wishes were passed around. Tim paused next to the bed. "Dip her passy in juice or sugar water if she gets anxious again. It should settle her."

"Yeah, McGee, I know. I did have an infant at one point. Now go. See you later."

His Adam's apple bobbed. "On it, Boss. Goodnight."

Abby threaded his arm through his and lead the way to the elevator.

Gibbs turned on Ziva. "You too. Home. DiNozzo is to feed you and put you in bed. No arguments. Get out of here."

"I do not take orders from you," she whispered sharply. "I am no longer your agent, nor are you my boss."

He rose to tower over her but his gaze was soft. "I'm going to need you tomorrow, Ziver. Get some rest for all of us."

She nodded, rebuked. "Ok. Tony, let's go to my place. We can watch television, or perhaps one of your movies." She stood on tiptoe to kiss Sara's head. "Uriel before me and Raphael behind," she murmured. "Sleep, my little _n'sicha._ Goodnight, Gibbs."

Tony cuffed him on the shoulder. "Call us, ok? You need anything…"

He nodded. "Thanks, DiNozzo. Make sure she gets some rest."

"You, too."

Gibbs smirked and turned back to Sara in the bed. Tony and Ziva were making their way out when his voice stopped them. He heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Get the damn cats," he ordered. "Take them to your place. Let them wake you with their little reveille _for once_, DiNozzo."


	8. Spirit Voices

__**Didn't mean to leave you hanging, gentle readers, but my busy life got even busier for a few weeks there, and then I sat down to write this and "Lioness" is what appeared on the screen. Weird, huh? So sorry! I don't intend to leave you ever again!**

We_ join the fevers and the broken bones._

_ -Paul Simon, "Spirit Voices."_

"Daddy?"

Gibbs lifted his head from where it lolled on the back of his chair. It was dawn; Sara's room was glowing orange with the early fall sunrise. It would've been a beautiful morning had his opinion of it not been colored by his daughters IVs and body cast. He smiled at her; she was blinking at him, pacifier loose in her mouth.

"Hi, sweet pea," he cooed, and leaned forward to stroke her curls. "How do you feel?"

She ignored his question, eyes shadowy with pain. "_Deyshoodeboy."_

He frowned. "Huh?"

"_Deyshoodeboy_," she slurred again.

"I don't know what that means, sweet pea," he said gently. "Are you ok?"

Sara's eyes went distant and her fists tightened and rose toward her ears. She hissed through her teeth and grunted. "Ow."

Gibbs rang for the nurse. "You in pain?"

"Ow," she said again, and turned her head toward the door.

Neesha, Sara's day nurse, came quickly, already armed with a syringe. "She's having muscle spasms," she informed him tightly. "I'll give her something to make her more comfortable." The meds were delivered and she left again, the noise of her clogs heavy on Gibbs' ears.

He kissed Sara's cheek, mindful of the oxygen cannula. "Thanks."

It took only a second for the metaxalone to work and Sara eyes to close against the oncoming light. Gibbs pulled the shades and plunged them both into semidarkness.

"Better?" he asked.

She hummed and blinked at him. "_See't_."

"See what?"

Sara thought for a minute, then shook her head slowly. "_Nuffin'_."

He ran his finger along the edges of the cast. "You ok in there? Not too tight?"

"_Notootight_," she parroted.

"Sleep a little more," he encouraged. "I'm here. You're safe."

She nodded. "Yeah_. Boy_."

Gibbs shushed her, wondering what _exactly_ was in the drugs she'd been given. She'd never hallucinated before surgery and the doctor promised that the dosage and medications were the same, post-op.

"Sleep, sweet pea," he told her. "Daddy's here. You're fine."

"_Yer'fiiiine," _she mumbled back to him, and closed her seawater eyes.

A fleeting silhouette in the hallway caught his eye and he turned, irritated. _ "_What?"

Abby poked her head in. "I brought you a coffee," she rambled softly. "But I have a really, really hard time seeing Sarie like this. It hurts my feelings. I'm sure it hurts her feelings, too, but she's asleep so it's not like her feelings are hurting _right now_ but I'm sure they will be—"

"Abbs," he interrupted. "It's ok."

She handed him the cup. "I'm sure you're having a hard time, too. I'm not trying to minimize what you're going through-I mean, you're her _father_-I just don't like to see such a tiny baby so…broken."

"We're getting her un-broken."

"I know but…it's just _hard_." Her eyes were emerald with unshed tears and Gibbs wondered dully how long she'd been in the hallway, priming herself to enter Sara's room and confront the monstrous hip spica.

"Are you holding up ok?" She asked suddenly. "It can't be easy to sleep in a hospital recliner. Should I bring you some naproxen sodium for your back? Is it hurting? Or maybe lunch later?"

He slid an arm around her shoulders. "Lunch would be great. Sandwiches?"

Abby nodded, pigtails swinging. "Absolutely! Has Lambykins been awake at all?"

"Little bit. Mumbling nonsense. Kinda out of it. Sounds like she might have been having nightmares, but she didn't wake up during the night."

She clicked her tongue. "Well, if she did, I hope she doesn't remember it."

"Doubt it," he agreed, stroking the top of Sara's left foot. She was still naked except for the cast, diaper area covered with a towel for modesty. She was catheterized still, and the tube snaked down the beside to the bag hanging below. An experienced aide promised it would be out by lunchtime and then he'd learn how to diaper her.

"What's going on in the lab?" he asked, needing to change the subject.

Abby hesitated. "Um, we have a few things going on. PFC dead at a party—looks like binge drinking gone too far—and a dead petty officer in the woods of Southern Avenue in Oxon Heights."

"No leads?"

"One, but it's shaky at best. Dawson's team is on it."

He nodded, knowing the investigation was in good hands. "Anyone else coming in before work?"

Her eyes darted to the wall clock. "I don't know, but I should get going. See you at lunch, ok?"

He stood and took her by the shoulders. "Hey," he murmured. "We'll be ok. Just takes time."

Abby nodded and sniffled, eyes on the floor. "Yeah, I know. I just don't like this."

"Me, either." He kissed her cheek, then her brow before looking over at Sara, still asleep and propped up with a dozen pillows. "Get some work done. We'll be here when you can come back."

. . . .

Dr. Minton came in and stayed only as long as it took to check the curing of Sara's cast. X-rays were scheduled, he said, and they'd start weaning her off the morphine pump. Gibbs nodded and nodded, caring only that his daughter was as comfortable as possible. _Home in a day_, Minton proposed, and he'd only shrugged.

"Home when she's not in pain," he countered, eyes hard and dangerous.

He left, and Abby and Ziva swung in before the door could latch. They were both quiet, shoulders taught with worry and fatigue.

Ziva handed him a fresh cup of coffee. "Here," she whispered. "How is she doing?"

"Quiet. Sleeping most of the time. Drugged. Pain pump will be gone today. Doc said she'll do fine on oral meds."

She picked at a Cesar salad. "She has lost many days to the effect of narcotic medications. I am ready for that stage to be over."

"Soon enough," he acquiesced. The sandwich Abby handed him was delicious; the salami was fresh and the mustard was spicy. He'd been tense all morning, but the women's quiet presence-and the food-calmed his rolling gut considerably.

Abby flopped down next to him and nudged his shoulder with his own. "It's easier this time."

He nodded, chewing.

"I mean it," she said firmly. "I didn't want to run away. Maybe it's because it's brighter in here now, or maybe it's because she looks a little better, but her cast isn't making me cry anymore."

Ziva was puzzled. "Why were you crying?"

"I don't like how Sara looks in her cast. It makes me feel hopeless and afraid. I don't want to feel hopeless and afraid for our little Lambykins. It isn't fair; she's little."

"Why would you feel hopeless? The surgery repaired her sublexed hips and the cast is only temporary. _Afraid _I can understand-it's worrisome when a child feels poorly-but _hopeless?_"

"Don't judge me," Abby said delicately. "I was trying to talk about my feelings. I don't have to rationalize them and neither do you."

Ziva nodded resolutely. "Oh. I did not understand." She sat up straight and squared her shoulders. "I feel relieved. In a few days the pain will be well-controlled and Sara will be able to heal at home, where she belongs."

Abby gave her a shy smile. "Thanks for sharing with us."

Gibbs tried hard not to roll his eyes as he swallowed the last big bite of his sandwich. _Ridiculous, _he complained internally, but movement in the bed made him forget all about their miniature therapy session. Sara shifted her right arm, brow furrowed, and and he leaned forward to brush his fingertips across her collarbone.

"Hey, sweet pea. Want to wake up for us?"

She pried her eyes open and scowled, grunting in discomfort.

"Hey," he said again. "You going to wake up, baby girl?"

Seawater eyes wandered the room and found Ziva and Abby seated next to her father. Three expectant faces were more than Sara could handle and she burst into tears.

Gibbs plucked the pacifier from her mouth and put it on the table. "Sweet pea," he sighed. "What's the matter?"

She held her arms out to him and cried harder.

He shook his head and kissed both her palms. "The doctor said I can't pick you up because the cast isn't hard yet. After dinner, ok?"

She brought one fist down on the mattress and grunted again, sad and angry.

He stroked her cheek. "Want some of Ziva's smoothie?"

Sara turned her face away and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Gibbs tugged it out and she squawked loudly in irritation.

"No thumb," he said, voice soft but steady. "There are a lot of germs here and you could get sick. Let's get you something to drink instead. Apple juice?"

Neesha had delivered a few juice boxes before Abby and Ziva arrived. He jabbed the straw in one and held it to Sara's mouth, but she squawked again and reached ineffectually for her pacifier.

Gibbs intercepted her hand again. "You are a big girl, Sara. Use your words to tell me what you want."

She began to cry harder, sad and angry, and threw her hands over her face.

Ziva stroked Sara's curls and whispered nonsense until the tears subsided, then offered the pacifier again. Sara took it and sucked greedily in an attempt to calm herself.

"She is overwhelmed," Ziva explained, finger still resting on Sara's soother. "And in pain. She needs to go home as quickly as possible." She pulled her hand away and paced a bit, rocking on her heels.

"_Deyshoodeboy," _Sara interjected, eyes wandering.

Gibbs leaned closer and propped his arms on the bed. "What does that mean, sweet pea? Can you tell me?"

She stared, blinking, pacifier bobbing. "Boy," she slurred.

"What boy?"

"D'boy."

"What boy?" Gibbs repeated.

Sara slurred something unintelligible and tucked both of her hands between his. His heart melted and he no longer cared about any boy.

"I love you," he whispered into her ear.

She sighed. "Daddy."

"That's me, kiddo. Sure you don't want any juice?"

She looked away.

"Do you think she just had a flashback, Gibbs?" Abby begged. "Why would she be talking about a boy? She doesn't even know any boys."

"She knows Tony," Ziva filled in automatically, and Abby and Gibbs nearly snorted with laughter. "What?" she sniffed, offended. "He can be quite childlike, especially when he plays with her. Perhaps she wants him to visit."

Gibbs rubbed her back through her sweater, smiling a little. "You here with me for the afternoon?"

"Yes," she sighed absently, rubbing the ball of her thumb on the inch of Sara's exposed ankle. "Tim and I had a brief study session this morning. My coursework demands that I know more European history than was necessary for my operations with Mossad. I have half a module to finish and then the exam afterward. It should take me about three hours. Four if Sara needs me."

He motioned to the small table—indicating that that was where Ziva should set up shop—where Abby was gathering lunch detritus and throwing it in the trash. She dropped a kiss on Ziva's curls, which had gone wild as her arm healed. Tony was responsible for her hair care and it often went without, as she claimed he did not do a thorough job of conditioning or detangling.

"Call me if you need help," she said seriously. "I'll drop everything."

"Please don't," Ziva quipped back. "I would not want you to have to sweep up broken glass."

Abby guffawed at her dry delivery and gave Gibbs a tight hug. "Hang in there, guys. I'll see you later."

An hour of quiet passed while Ziva worked and Sara dozed, until Neesha came in for a check and announced that Sara no longer needed the catheter.

"I'll remove it," she said briskly, "and then you can help me get her diapered. You'll have to know how before you can take her home."

He nodded and took his place next to the bed. Sara flinched when she released the Foley balloon and cried out when Neesha lowered the bed and flipped Sara over so her behind was exposed. Gibbs shushed and soothed her with his hands on her hair.

"You'll need a small diaper for inside the cast," the nurse instructed, holding up a newborn diaper with the tabs torn off, "and another for over it. I covered the edges of the cast with water-resistant tape, but you should use both to prevent leaks."

Gibbs stroked Sara's hair again but she cried on, inconsolable. "She came to me knowing how to do this herself. I just needed to help while she was in the brace."

The nurse shook her head. "She had a spinal block before her surgery. Don't expect her to know when she needs to go—not for another few days, anyway. Also, the painkillers can have some effects on elimination. We don't want her to have an accident and soil the cast; she'll have to go back under general anesthesia to get refitted."

Sara stopped crying when he laid a gentle kiss on her ear. "Fine," he grumbled. "So I'll be changing her every three hours for the next three months?"

"Yep. I know it's hard, but it's temporary. She'll be running around again before you know it."

Gibbs scoffed and helped Neesha turn her over, then fastened the tape on the outer diaper. "That's what they told me last time, but we ended up with _this_." He patted the front of her cast.

Neesha shrugged apologetically and had him prop Sara upright with pillows and a rolled bath towel. Sara gazed around, appreciating the better view.

"Want your penguins?" he offered, holding out her favorite animals.

She shook her head and toyed with her hair.

"Don't feel like talking yet, do ya, kid?"

She blinked at the blue sky and pointed as a plane disappeared into a stray cloud.

"I wouldn't either," he grumbled, and picked up his magazine when she declined juice again.

"She is angry," Ziva said from behind her laptop. "And the medicine is making her dizzy. Leave her alone with her _motzetz_ and her _arnevet_. She does not want to be bothered."

Gibbs gave her a smirk over the top of his magazine. "You two been ESP'ing each other again?"

She glared back with defensive posturing. "Leave her alone until she is off the narcotics. Then she will feel up to playing again."

He grunted and sat back, listening to Sara hum to herself. She seemed to be calm, if not happy.

Neesha was not pleased. "She needs to drink," she informed Gibbs shortly. "I don't want her to run a fever. Sara, you need to have some juice."

Sara refused, grunting in displeasure.

"Does your tummy hurt? Do you feel like throwing up?"

"Yeah," she whined.

"I'll give her a little anti-emetic. She might not want to drink until after it takes effect." She bustled out to fill the pharmacy order and Ziva raised an eyebrow.

"My _shaifeleh_," she sighed. "You are feeling so terrible. How can I make it better?"

Sara sniffled and whimpered pathetically, reaching out one hand towards her. Ziva clucked and boosted herself onto the bed, sliding the few inches across the mattress. She stopped short when her leg brushed against the hard fiberglass around Sara's knee.

"Maybe I should take a break from my studies," she conceded. "I might need to rest with my _n'sicha_."

Sara began to hum again and let her eyes wander. "Boy," she said suddenly.

Gibbs crossed his arms. "What boy, sweet pea?"

"_Deyshoodeboy. Boybyd'wall," _she said weakly, and fell asleep with her head pillowed on Ziva's shoulder.

. . . .

Tim, Tony, and Abby crashed the quiet afternoon at eighteen hundred. Tony brought a tray of lasagna from his favorite Georgetown hole-in-the-wall, along with a pint of chicken consommé from a deli near the Navy Yard. Oddly enough, Sara's favorite plastic bowl and spoon were in the bag with the soup.

"Is the buglet hungry?" Tony asked.

Gibbs lifted one shoulder. "Ask her, DiNozzo."

He tiptoed across the room and knocked gently on the high bodice of Sara's cast. She was awake, pacifier in her mouth, hands pillowed beneath her head. She'd laid claim to the extra sweater from Ziva's bag and it lay across her lap like a blanket.

"Hey, bug. You want some soup?"

She stared and gave him a noncommittal _hm_.

"C'mon, buglet. I brought you some soup. It's the same kind we made for Ziva when she was sick. Want a little sip?"

She put aside the pacifier and opened her mouth obediently. He spooned a few drops onto her tongue and waited while she swallowed.

He grinned when she opened a second time. "Attagirl, buglet" he praised quietly, and gave her another bite.

She accepted again and again, allowing him to feed her about a quarter of a cup of broth before taking the spoon from him and trying it herself. She wasn't upright enough, though, nor steady enough to keep the liquid in the spoon. It ended up in the bed and on Ziva's sweater.

"Uh oh," she said clumsily. "Spill."

"It's just a little bit," Abby assured her, and dried it off with a paper napkin while Tony offered her another bite. She shook her head.

"Juice, then?" He held out the straw and she took three small swallows before sticking the pacifier back in her mouth. Tony put the juice box aside and ate his own meal, glancing occasionally at Sara with a tiny crease in his brow. Her silence was unnerving him.

"How's your belly?" Gibbs asked, balancing his plate on his knee. "Feel sick or dizzy?"

"No," she mumbled. "M'not sick."

"Want your penguins?"

She sighed, but took them from him and put them among the bedclothes. "Sleep," she told them quietly.

Dr. Minton knocked on the doorframe, x-ray envelope in one hand and a coffee for Gibbs in the other. He was smiling faintly and accompanied by a young woman in dreadlocks.

"Hi everyone," he said casually. "How's it going?"

Sara pulled the pacifier from her mouth. "Bad," she reported, scowling in irritation. Everyone laughed and she frowned harder.

"Sorry about that," he said sincerely. "How was your first day in your big cast?"

"Bad," she repeated. "Wan'out."

He gave her a rueful smile. "You need to get better first. Want to see the pictures we took today?"

She turned away and crossed her arms. "No."

"Can I show them to Daddy?"

She fixed him with her blank stare and put the pacifier back in her mouth, ending the conversation with a quiet harrumph. He pulled the x-rays from the envelope and stuck them on the in-room light board while his colleague, Dr. Nevins, introduced herself to everyone.

"I'm the metabolic specialist from Fairfax," she said softly. "Sara's blood and tissue samples are in my lab now, but I want to do a quick exam before I get the results."

Gibbs couldn't find a reason to be defensive with her. "She's in a bad mood," he warned.

"I'll do nothing invasive," she replied.

Dr. Minton pointed at the titanium plates screwed to the tops of Sara's femurs. "She looks really good. We'll set her up for more images in a month. Otherwise, you're free to take her home tomorrow morning."

Gibbs was shocked. "What about the morphine?"

The doctor smiled. "She was cut off an hour ago. Has she complained of pain since?"

"No," he replied, thinking. Sara _hadn't_ complained of pain, and her eyes were a little clearer, if drawn in frustration and sadness. "When will she get oral medication?"

"We're just watching for any side effects from the narcotics. She'll get a dose of Tramadol in another fifteen minutes or so. We'll have a scrip ready for you when it's time to go home. Speaking of, you need to bring in her stroller and car seat for fittings. She might need strap extenders or a loaner car seat."

"I'll pick them up tomorrow morning and bring them in," Tim volunteered, and cast his eyes at his teammates. "Vance took us out of rotation starting tomorrow. We're still working, but he spoke to me about Sara's needs in the coming week, and we decided that new cases should go to Dawson or McGill."

Abby nudged Gibbs' shoulder. "And I'm taking the day off to help Sarie get settled."

"I took off to hang with Ziva," Tony joined in. "But it looks like we'll be at Chez Gibbs. Huh, sweet cheeks?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "I would prefer to stay with Sara, yes." She elbowed him with her cast and dropped her voice to a whisper. "You do not need to announce these things, Tony."

He smiled and looped an arm around her waist. "What are you worried about? Rule Twelve is roadkill."

"Gross," she said flatly, but didn't pull away.

Dr. Nevins cleared her throat. "I'd like to do my exam now."

Dr. Minton recognized the glances everyone shared. He held up his hands. "She's had enough—I get it. Her cast is cured enough that we can put her on your lap, Gibbs. Do you think that will help?"

There was a collective sigh of relief; Sara's discomfort make the whole room antsy. "Yeah," Gibbs agreed gruffly. He sat down in the recliner and allowed Dr. Nevins to cushion his lap with a pillow while the night nurse, Evelina, helped Dr. Minton shift Sara into Gibbs' lap. He realized instantly that the pillow was for _his_ comfort, not hers; the cast was _very_ heavy. Sara weighed an additional ten pounds with it on, and the semi-upright position necessary for her healing hips made her difficult to hold.

"Ok, Sara," Dr. Nevins said once she was settled in her father's arms. "Can I look at your eyes and teeth?"

Sara balked and grabbed Gibbs' sleeve. "Why?"

"Because I want to see if you have blue spots on them."

"I don't," she told the doctor blithely. "_Youdon'tneedinsee_."

Gibbs lowered his mouth to her ear. "Slow down, sweet pea. Make your words nice and clear."

Sara turned to rest her cheek on his chest. "_Wannagohome_."

"Slow down," he coached again. "We're going home tomorrow. I know you're tired and grumpy, but you need to let Dr. Nevins look at your eyes."

She turned again and only flinched a little when the doctor lifted her eyelids to examine the sclerae beneath.

"I see one blue spot," the doctor sing-songed. "Should I show Daddy?"

Sara arced her neck and allowed her to show Gibbs the blue-grey spot above and to the left of her iris. He frowned. "What does that mean?"

"She might have a collagen issue," Nevins said. "But let's wait for the labs to come back. "Can I see your teeth now?"

Sara opened her mouth.

"You have beautiful teeth. Did the dentist count them for you?"

"Yeah. Have a lot," she replied. "Got _Uptown_ cause _Iwasgood_."

"I love _Uptown_," Dr. Nevins gushed. "I hope you get more books for being good. They're a great reward."

"_Lovebooks_," she mumbled, thumb moving towards her mouth.

The doctor intercepted it and rolled her chair back. "Gibbs, I'll give you a call once the tests results come in."

"Tell me now if you think something is wrong," he said lowly. "I'm not going to sit on my hands and worry for the next week."

"I'm not guessing," she told him firmly. "I don't have enough information without her lab results. I know you're concerned, but I feel that your best option is to go home and take good care of your little girl. Read those stories. Do you have any questions before I head out?"

"Yeah," he groused. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's sore and tired and cranky from surgery," she fired back, unruffled by his brashness. "I prescribe lots of hugs and kisses and sleep to make it better. Goodnight, everyone."

Dr. Minton put a folder of information on the table. "I want to talk a little bit about home care," he said delicately, looking at all six faces around him. "Sara will need help in every respect once she's home, so prepare yourselves to spend a lot of time—"

Tony cut him off. "We've been there and done that, Doc. She's immobile and cranky and in pain—we get it. What do we need to know to help her get better?"

Minton smiled knowingly and cut to the chase. "Never pick her up under the arms, reposition her every two hours to prevent pressure sores, and be careful not to let her stick anything in the cast. Food may be difficult—her belly can't expand because I had to raise the upper edge of the cast. Her lower spine and pelvis are remarkably flexible and unstable, structurally speaking. I had to immobilize her all the way up to keep her hips seated in the grafted sockets."

"Reposition her even at night?" Gibbs wanted to know, giving up on consecutive hours of sleep.

"Yeah. Having a kid in a hip spica is a lot like having a newborn—frequent feedings, tummy time, and diaper changes are going to be a part of the next few months. I'd make arrangements for an occupational therapist to do sessions at home because I doubt she'll feel like going out much. Prepare for cabin fever and get outside when you can."

"Sara sees a psychologist to help her cope with the emotional consequences of past abuse and neglect," Ziva said bravely. "I feel strongly that she should continue with these visits as she heals. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all." Dr. Minton held out his hands. "I think that's a great idea, actually. I left a packet of information on the table that might be helpful as Sara recovers. It contains ideas for clothing, activities, stretches, and general wellbeing while she's in the cast. Have a look and ask me any questions when I come around tomorrow morning." He crouched to Sara's eye level. "Thank you so much for being patient, Sara. I really appreciate it. Make sure you drink all your juice, ok?

She scowled and pointed a tiny finger at him. "Fine. Drinkin' juice. But no more surgery, ok? Don'want it."

"Nope. We're done with surgery." He didn't mention the hardware that would have to come out eventually. "Sleep tight, ok?"

"Bye," she dismissed, and waved her arms. "Daddy, you need to hold me."

Gibbs hugged her closer. "I am, sweet pea."

"No, the other way. Like when m'sleepin'."

He turned her carefully at arm's length and laid her against his chest with her knees tucked between his sides and the arms of the chair. "Better?" he asked.

She hummed and pointed at her pacifier, loose in the blankets. Ziva popped it in her mouth.

Tim cocked his head. "I might speak to her therapist about this regressive behavior, Boss. I'm not sure how healthy it is. We're trying to move her forward, not back."

Gibbs glared at him. "Sometimes forward and back are the same thing, McGee." He lowered his head to kiss his daughter's bare shoulder and whisper in her ear. "Sleep on Daddy, Sar. I'll hold you all night."

"Ok," she breathed.

Abby rubbed a gentle circle above the top of her cast. "Lambykins? Timmy and I are going to go to your house and get ready for you. Do you want us to bring you anything?"

She rolled her big green eyes toward them and shook her head, but tilted her chin a little to indicate that she wanted kisses. They obliged of course, before donning jackets and heading into the evening.

Tony slid closer and put one arm around Ziva's waist. "Want to get home to your cats, sweet cheeks?"

"I suppose," she replied slowly. "Thought I am hesitant to leave my _shaifeleh_. Do you have any messages I should deliver to your _chatul_, Saraleh?"

She shook her head again. "Stay," she mumbled around the pacifier. "Dun'want you go."

"I will go and you will sleep," Ziva told her resolutely. "But I will be back early in the morning to help Daddy take you home. I love you and _laila tov_."

Sara huffed and put her head back down. "_Laila tov_. _Deyshoodeboy_."

Tony paused midway through putting on his jacket. "What, buglet?"

"She's been talking about a boy all day," Gibbs said, and rested his chin on the crown of his daughter's head. "Probably had a nightmare or something. Never heard her talk about it before."

Tony's gut tossed. "Yeah, probably," he faltered. "C'mon, my ninja. Time to go home."

Ziva gave Sara a long look. "In front of me Uriel and Raphael behind. Sleep, _shaifeleh_." She turned and followed her fiancé out the door, her dark curls an unruly halo in the harsh hospital light.


	9. It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

**Thanks, everyone! Look for more "Treading Water" this week!**

*spoilers for "Pyramid."

_Leave your stepping stones behind; _

_ something calls for you._

_ Forget the dead you've left; they will not follow you._

_ -Bob Dylan, "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."_

Tony was on the couch with coffee and the laptop when Ziva shuffled out of the bedroom looking sleepy-eyed and tousled. He'd slept poorly, chewing on what Sara had mumbled about a shooting and a boy, and decided to do a little early-morning research. The results yielded no pertinent information; Sara's name wasn't a hit on any police report involving a shooting, and everyone associated with Godwin was in jail or dead. There were a few loose ends, he was sure, from her previous foster placements, but her name would have been omitted from any documents due to her status as a minor.

He sighed and looped an arm around Ziva's shoulders when she curled up next to him on the sofa. "Sleeping Ninja, Hidden Hairbrush? Good morning, sweet cheeks. Did I wake you?"

She shook her head, yawning. "No. You are up early, yes?"

He shrugged. "What was Buglet mumbling about yesterday? Did she say 'they shot the boy'?"

"I think so," Ziva replied, studying the search results on the laptop monitor. "I would not be surprised if she witnessed a shooting while in foster care. It seems that every single one of her placements was abusive and violent." She paused to yawn again and rub her head. "She was on a lot of powerful medication, too. Perhaps she was hallucinating."

"Doubt it," Tony scoffed. "Didn't you learn to listen to her the hard way?" He tapped her arm.

She made a face at him and looked pointedly back at the laptop. "Maybe we should speak to her when she feels better. And McGee is a bit savvier than you are, technologically speaking. Let's ask him to help."

He lifted his chin. "Did you call me a luddite?"

Ziva nuzzled closer and draped her broken arm across his middle. "I call you my fiancé. When are we going to the hospital?"

"We aren't," he countered, holding up his phone. "It's better if we meet them at home. Gibbs called at seven and said Sara was having her car seat adjusted. They'd be home by ten. It's already eight-thirty."

"How did I sleep so late?" she wondered aloud. "I was not terribly tired."

Tony approached the subject carefully, not wanting Ziva to distance herself from him. "You were tossing and turning an awful lot last night."

She shook her head. "I did not sleep well, but that's fine. I have gone without. You should not worry."

"I didn't say I was worried," he defended quickly. It was a lie, but he carried on anyway. "I just want to know what was on your mind."

It took Ziva a minute to answer. "Gibbs was in a bad mood yesterday. It…upset me a bit. Sara needed him to be her advocate, but he seemed so lost in his own world that I finally told him to leave her alone."

Tony put his cheek on her head. "Why did that bother you?"

She huffed. "He is her _father_, Tony. Not only that, he is her _only_ parent. He cannot have a bad day when his daughter's needs are so great."

He laughed softly. "Are you telling me that Gibbs needs to get over himself and take care of his kid?"

Ziva smiled against his sweatshirt. "I think so. When would you like to leave?"

"When you're ready."

She made no effort to get up. "I need to stay right here for a minute."

He twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers. "Ok. Stay, then. But we need to comb your hair today if you're going to leave the house. You're starting to look like the Wild Woman of Borneo."

"Wild Woman of Silver Spring?"

He smiled. "I think that movie came out in the Seventies."

She nudged him with her cast. "That's all you have to say."

He laughed hard. Ziva found 1970s cinema to be campy at best and profane at worst, though she did enjoy _Dog Day Afternoon_ and _The French Connection_. He'd tried to get her interested in Sean Connery as James Bond, but she slept through _Diamonds are Forever_ on a particularly cold and cloudy Friday night.

"Help me wash my hair," she demanded, drawing him from his reverie. She pushed away from him with a shove to his gut, but her smile was coy and she kissed his cheek, knowing the right about of lash-batting would get him off the couch.

"Absolutely," he drawled, setting the computer aside.

Tony put the stool in front of the sink while she collected towels and her shampoo and conditioner. It took three tries to get the stool to the proper height, but she didn't complain when he gathered her curls and dropped them in the basin. He had gotten the water temperature was just right and she moaned when he poured a cup of it around her hairline.

"That is nice, Tony," she purred, eyes closed.

"Mm hm," he agreed, working the lather into her hair. He flinched when his fingers grazed over a furrow in her scalp. The scar, eight centimeters long and initially held together with thirteen staples , was a souvenir from Lieutenant Cobb's run as the Port-to-Port Killer. _No wonder she quit_, he thought scornfully,and cupped her head with his palms to scrub behind her ears.

"Hey, Zi?" he asked suddenly.

She didn't open her eyes. "What?"

"Did you think we were coming for you?"

She had no idea what he was talking about. "Huh?"

He finished washing and filled a cup with warm water. "When Cobb dumped you in that old barn. Did you think we were coming?"

"I knew it," Ziva said simply. "He told me it was a diversion. I knew you would come. I tried to get loose but my head was _pounding_ and I did not know where I was."

Tony nodded, not assuaged. "It must've been hard, though, after being held captive in Somalia. You must've felt like you were back there…"

"No," she said tartly. "I did not. I _felt_ like I was in a rotting barn on a farm in some God-forsaken ghost town. It was definitely not Saleem Ullman's grimy, sandy, barrack."

He nodded and squeezed a hearty dollop of conditioner into his palm. "Just checking."

She was quiet while he detangled her hair. "I could hear that toy. And chickens—they are so noisy, Tony. And roosters crow all day, not just in the morning. Did you know that?"

He chuckled, finally relieved. "I didn't. Thanks for telling me."

She wiggled her neck against the edge of the sink. "I am not so fearful, Tony. I am not the fragile thing you suspect I am. I have lived by my wits—killed by them, even—for a long time. You do not need to coddle me."

He shut off the water and wrung out her hair. "I want to coddle you. I want to take care of you. I feel good about it." He paused to shake out a towel and wrap it around her head. "I feel _manly_."

She chuckled and sat up. "It is not necessary. I can take care of myself."

"You can take care of both of us, even with a broken arm. But I gotta tell you, Zi, when you put your head on my shoulder I just want to turn into a puddle of goo. It's so warm and sweet…" She sat up and socked him hard in the sternum. He choked, smiling. "And _that_ is just sexy. Hit me again, kitten."

She elbowed him in the gut. "I will _kitten_ you, Tony. Speaking of—where are Yaffa and Yitzi?"

He pointed to the potted sago palm in the corner. Both cats were curled in the soil around the trunk.

"Ugh," she grunted, annoyed. "Now they will track dirt around the house."

"Go get dressed," he ordered gently. "I'll clean up after them and then we'll brush out your hair."

She was dressed in an instant and standing before him, barefoot, holding a hairbrush, before he even located the hand-held vacuum. She handed it to him and plopped down on the easy chair. "Start at the bottom and work your way up."

Tony abandoned his cleaning and carefully worked the snarls from her hair, then secured a low ponytail with an elastic "Beautiful as ever," he declared. "Let's get Sara's baby tiger and head over there."

Ziva lifted Yitzi from the pot and brushed the dirt from his fur. Yaffa lifted her head, confused, and stretched her claws. "You stay here," Ziva informed her as if the cat understood. "You are mine and this is your house. Have a good rest in your personal terrarium."

. . . .

Gibbs pulled Sara from the car seat and adjusted her clothes while Tony and Ziva grabbed bags from the trunk. He had to dress Sara in things two sizes too big to accommodate her bulky cast, and they tended to tangle and rumple as he moved her around—bed to reclining wheelchair, wheelchair to car seat, car seat to his arms.

Ziva smiled up into Sara's face. "Good morning, _shaifeleh_. How are you feeling?"

She blinked and said nothing. Her grey gaze was empty.

Gibbs hugged her closer to his chest. "She's not up to talking yet."

Ziva nodded. "I understand. You must be angry and sad still, Sara'leh."

Tony closed the SUV's rear gate. "Take her inside, Boss. I'll get her things."

Gibbs took three steps toward the front door when the breeze blew and Sara stiffened, tightening her hold around his neck. He tugged up the drooping collar of her dress. "Cold, sweet pea? Let's get inside fast and we'll get you a blanket."

"No," she said, surprising him. "_Fillsgood."_

"The wind feels good?" He'd put a pair of too-big leg warmer over her casted legs when he heard the forecast called for rain and cooler temperatures. The nurses cautioned him about overheating—how Sara could get rashes and sores from sweating into the cast padding—but said nothing about keeping her comfortable in cold weather.

"Sure you don't want a blanket?"

She shook her head and toyed with the buttons on his polo. "No. _Wan'stayout_."

He lowered himself slowly into a porch chair. "Ok, but just for a minute. We need to go inside if it starts to rain. You'll melt if you get wet." Sara ignored his feeble attempt at a joke and put her thumb in her mouth. He replaced it with the pacifier he'd stashed in his pocket.

"Boy," she said around it.

He kissed her head. "Back to the boy, huh? What happened to him?"

"Shooted."

Tony dropped their bags in the foyer and came back out on the porch, sitting down in the chair across from her and Gibbs. "Did you see that boy get shot, Bug?"

She was silent until Ziva brushed at the back of her hair and kissed her cheek. "I am so sorry, _shaifeleh_. Were you scared the men would shoot you, too?"

"Yeah." Sara whimpered and hid her face in Gibbs' jacket.

"No one is going to hurt you. Daddy and Tony and all of us will protect you. Was the boy a big boy or a small boy?"

Sara shrugged.

Gibbs rubbed the back of her neck with two fingers. "Who did you live with when you saw the boy get shot, sweet pea?"

"_Mur'Wolcott._"

He nuzzled her gently. "It sounds like a lot of bad stuff happened when you lived with Mr. Wolcott." She sniffed and sighed and he felt the pacifier shift in her mouth. He hated that she had a nookie, but it was the only thing that soothed her effectively. "Ready to go in?" He asked in her ear.

She hummed _yes_ and they all went inside, where Tony helped Gibbs settled Sara in the beanbag chair and Ziva unpacked Yitzi and all this belongings. Abby, who spent the morning rooting through Sara's closet for clothes that would fit, threw herself down on the floor next to Sara and thumbed through a few new picture books.

"Want me to read, Lamby?"

She thought for a minute while Gibbs pulled off her socks and moccasins to check her toes for swelling. Satisfied that her circulation was good, he tickled her and she twitched. The ghost of a smile swept across her face.

"_Youwannareaditme_?" she finally asked, looking down.

Abby grinned. "I would love to read to you. Should we let Daddy take a nap?"

Storybook forgotten, Sara's face crumpled and her fists came up by her ears. "No!" she howled, eyes wide. "Daddy _don'go_!"

He knelt and put both hands on her knees, jostling her a little to break the panic before it took hold. "I'm not going anywhere" he said, voice soft and sure. "Abby is going to read to you and I'm going to organize your medicine and make a new schedule to replace the old one. Ziva is going to help me."

"No-no," she whimpered around the pacifier, holding her arms up. Her cries turned distressing. "_Don'leaveme_!"

He picked her up again. "I'm not leaving you. I would never leave you, but I have Daddy-stuff to do. Let's bring your beanbag to the dining room so you can watch."

Abby looked stricken as Tony dragged the beanbag into the dining area and Gibbs gathered Sara in his arms once again. "I don't think she likes me any more," she whispered pitifully.

Ziva put a hand on her arm. "I'm sure she does. She is overwhelmed and probably due for some medication. Help me make a new dosing schedule? I cannot write yet."

"Sure," she agreed, still worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Gibbs tried to put Sara back down, but she wailed louder and took the shoulder seams of his shirt in both hands. He gave up and readjusted his hold on her.

"Sweet pea," he breathed by her ear. "You don't have to cry anymore. I won't put you down." She sniffled and went silent, listening. "You don't have to be afraid," he went on. "Everyone is at home. No one is leaving. In fact, Tim McGee is coming in a little while. He had to take the stroller for some adjustments so that you could sit in it comfortably. Are you going to give him a thank-you kiss when he comes?"

"No," she said flatly. "_NoTim'Gee. On'y Daddy_."

Gibbs frowned and hoped this speech lapse would be short-lived. "I love you," he said firmly. "Remember: I'm not going anywhere."

"_On'yDaddy_," she repeated.

Ziva handed him a needleless syringe containing a dose of Tramadol. "Here," she said softly. "She's ten minutes overdue."

"She's not complaining of pain," he murmured, but gave his daughter the medication anyway. She took it dutifully, eyes heavy-lidded but roving.

Ziva studied Sara's face for a second. "You are very nervous, _shaifeleh_. Can you tell me why?"

Sara pulled down the loose collar of her oversized dress and hooked her fingers over the top of the fiberglass shell. "_Wan'out_," she grumbled.

Ziva shook her head. "I am sorry, _motek_, but you cannot come out until you're all better. That will take time."

Sara put the pacifier back in her mouth. "Daddy," she sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder.

He paced the first floor for a few minutes while Abby, Ziva, and Tony organized medications and posted her new schedule on the pantry door. Sara drowsed, sucking her paci and staring into space.

It took ten long minutes for the painkiller to work. Gibbs made his way slowly back into the kitchen, where everyone was having coffee and making small talk. They were all tense with worry; everyone thought Sara's transition would be a little easier. He walked carefully, making sure each step was the same length and the last.

"Hey," he whispered, and turned so Sara's face was visible to them. "Is she out?"

Tony nodded. "Where do you want to put her down?"

Gibbs went to the dining room, where the beanbag was slumped against one of the table legs. He crouched, knees aching, and shifted Sara into it, positioning her so the cast didn't rub on her back. She jerked awake momentarily, but drifted off when he stroked her brow and made a soft _sh_ sound.

"You look like hell, Boss," Tony said abruptly. "Hit the rack."

He almost said no, but the thought of an hour of shuteye was too enticing. "Call me as soon as she starts to stir. The _second_—"

"Copy," Tony interrupted, green eyes clear and purposeful. "Go rest; it's why we're here."

Gibbs nodded and trotted silently up the stairs. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots, but Tony was at the door with Sara in his arms. She was sniffling and wearing a clean diaper. Gibbs looked down; his left boot was gone, kicked under the bed. The right was still on; laces tied neatly in a double knot.

"Hey, Boss?" Tony said softly. "The Lady Buglet needs you. I know it's only been an hour, but..."

He blinked, confused, and bent to untie his remaining boot. He kicked it off, then stood and helped DiNozzo turn Sara around so he could take her. She wrapped both arms around his neck and sighed. The pacifier was still planted firmly between her lips.

Tony cocked his head, taking in Gibbs' bleary eyes and sleep-creased face. "Don't remember falling asleep, do ya?"

"Nope." Gibbs brushed his lips over Sara's brow. "Hi," he rasped sleepily. "Did you have a good nap?" She hummed and nuzzled closer. He looked at Tony. "You got her changed ok? Both diapers?"

"Yeah. She was wet but didn't make too much noise about it. Ziva held her hand."

Gibbs kissed Sara's hair. "Thanks. Good girl, sweet pea. You want something to eat?" She stared back, silent, but he knew she had to want something; it had been hours since breakfast. "DiNozzo, fill a sippy cup with milk for me. Whole, not skim."

"Since when do you have two kinds…" Tony's question was cut short with a glare. "On it," he agreed, and clomped back down.

Gibbs swayed a little with his daughter in his arms, listening to Ziva and Tony in the kitchen. Their voices were low, even soothing, and he drew a modicum of strength from their presence. The talking stopped abruptly, and seconds later Tony offering the cup with a little ceremony. "This morning's selection is an organic whole milk from Ohio," he said grandly, channeling his favorite sommelier, "carefully refrigerated to preserve the fat content, flavor, and texture." He smiled and winked at Sara but her empty expression didn't change.

"Hold up, DiNozzo," he said softly. "Let me get her comfortable." Tony followed him to Sara's bedroom, where he picked up the edge of a lightweight green blanket that hung on the footboard. "Wrap this around her shoulders," he instructed gently. "She's cold."

Tony did so without question, tucking the edges between Sara's cast and Gibbs' chest. Gibbs lowered himself into the rocker and settled Sara with her head in the crook of his left arm. Certain the cast edges weren't rubbing anywhere, he used hid right hand to pry the pacifier from her mouth and replace it with the spout of the sip-cup.

"Here, baby girl," he cooed, and praised her lowly when she drank with quiet, greedy noises. They were soft sounds—baby sounds—and they unknotted some of the anxiety that curled in his chest. Dimly, he was aware of Tony's retreat down the steps, but the small, sweet smile finally gracing Sara's face blotted out the footsteps, the wind blowing rain against the windowpanes, the squeaking hinges of the back door opening and swinging shut. Abby could be heard opening the freezer door and then a glass casserole dish clanked quietly against the counter. Sara sighed and blinked at him, still drinking and holding her gaze with his own.

"Better, sweet pea?" She smiled again, a little brighter, seawater eyes clear and focused for the first time since before the operation. "Yeah," he cooed as if to a baby. He matched her smile with his own. "Me, too."

Gibbs held Sara for a long time, rocking a little and humming while she drank her milk and drifted off to sleep. His arms went numb, cramped, and went numb again, but he accepted the pain and ignored it, content enough to offer his daughter some kind of comfort. He, too, was comforted. Sleep pulled at him again.

Abby tiptoed in and handed him another dose of Tramadol without saying a word. He woke Sara just enough to get her to take it, then continued to rock until her arms went limp and her mouth fell slack. Tiny drops of milk gathered on her lower lip, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. He looked at Sara's bed, then down at her face, then at Abby.

She gave him a tiny smile. "Don't want to put her down, do you?" She shrugged. "So put her in your bed. I can tell you're still tired."

He shifted Sara and stood, wavering a bit in fatigue, and Abby kissed his cheek. "Sleep all day—I don't care. I'll be working on my laptop if you need me." He hesitated, eyes sweeping Sara's small bedroom.

"Go," Abby prodded, a hint of impatience in her voice. "Take your baby and go to bed. We'll all stand guard. Pinky-promise."

. . . .

Tony pushed open the back door and found Ziva on the porch, arms crossed, shoulders curled down as if she wore a heavy pack. A gust of wind raised a few strands of her ponytail and whipped them around his face. He smoothed them down.

"Whatcha doin' out here all by your lonesome, sweet cheeks?"

She arced her neck and gave him a doleful look. "Nothing. Watching the weather."

A smattering of rain sprayed their faces. He'd had the wherewithal to bring her fleece out with him, and he laid it across her slumped shoulders. "You're cold," he said gently.

She shrugged and bristled a little. "Like I said earlier, Tony, I am not so fragile. I can handle being cold. I can handle going without sleep, and I can handle a little rain. I am fine. I needed some fresh air, but I do not think this is an appropriate time to go for a walk." The rain fell harder, as if to make her point.

Tony pulled her back against him and wrapped both arms around her waist from behind. "I don't want your arm to get wet. They'll cut the cast off and start all over."

"Liar," she said lightly. "It comes off in two weeks, anyway. Maybe the rain can give it a head start."

He snorted. "I'd rather it stay as-is and you get the chance to finally heal. Besides, you'll probably be in a splint for a while after it comes off. Your fingers are kinda…" he make a face and curled his own index and middle fingers into claws.

Ziva laughed quietly. "I will be fine, Tony. Remember that I do not need to level a weapon anytime soon."

He nodded and rested his chin on the top of his head. "I know. I still miss you at work."

"I miss you at home," she countered easily, and shrank away from a hard gust of wind. The temperature was dropping further and the sky was steel grey, but the blowing grass and rain-raked trees seemed to call out to her. "I want to get married out here," she announced unexpectedly.

Tony shook raindrops from his hair. "Right _now?"  
_

"No," she drawled. "In the spring or early summer. When the flowers are blooming and you have mowed the lawn."

He was shocked. "You want to get married in Leroy Jethro Gibbs' backyard? With the blackberries and the mosquitos and the croquet holes—seriously?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "I want to get married _to you_ back here. We will put up little lights and there will be a sunset and food and dancing for many hours."

"Ok," he agreed, thinking.

"And I want a _chuppah_," she blurted. "A Jewish wedding canopy. You know what I mean, yes?"

"I've been to a few Jewish weddings, Zi. I know what a _chuppah_ is. I'm a goy, you know. They gonna let me stand there with you?"

He felt the muscles in her back grow tense. "And who are _they_, Tony? _You_ will be _my_ husband. You do not need permission to marry me."

"Good, 'cause I didn't ask," he said, cutting off her tirade. "You want a chuppah? You get one. End of discussion."

Ziva relaxed against him. "Thank you. Shall we go inside?"

Abby was on the sofa, tucked beneath a throw with her laptop on her lap. A Caf-Pow sweated on a coaster on the coffee table. The television was tuned to ZNN, volume low. Yitzi yawned and stretched when he saw them, then turned and curled back into his nap.

Abby grinned at their damp hair and pink cheeks. "Hi, lovebirds. How's the great outdoors? Ready to curl up on your bearskin rug—not that I condone the hunting of bears—and rest for a bit? What a long morning, huh?"

Tony smirked and put his hand on Ziva's hip. "We're ready for some lunch. Feel like a tuna melt? There's fresh bread in the kitchen."

"Sure," she said lightly, and reached for the remote. "Let me just turn this—"

A flash in the programming made her pause. _Breaking news from North Philadelphia_, the reporter droned. _Remains found in a vacant lot last week have been identified as fourteen-year-old Brandon Tracy, a teenage vagrant who was last seen at a derelict rowhouse on Ogden Street. The rowhouse, called "The Rat" by local residents, is a well-known illegal squat and haven for area runaways. Philadelphia County Coroner has ruled the death a homicide, but is withholding the manner in which Tracy died. We'll have more on the story as it develops. _

Abby made a small noise of regret. "Just a boy…sad."

Ziva nodded and politely held her tongue; she knew children who were committing acts of terrorism by that age. She looked at Tony, who had also fallen silent, but there was a strange tension in his neck that she saw only when something wasn't right. She put a hand on his arm. "You are alright, Tony?"

He didn't try to force a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I think I'm gonna call my buddy about that though. Not sitting right with me."

"Sara," she said lowly.

He shrugged. "I'm just gonna call my buddy. He's not in a North Philly district, but he might be able to get someone who is. Hey Abby—do me a favor?"

She was rebraiding a loose pigtail. "What do you need?"

"I want a list of all of Sara's placements."

Abby shook her head. "She wasn't in Philadelphia. I don't think anyway—I can look."

"You do that," he said amiably. "It might be nothing, but I just…you know. I want to know. And thanks. Enough of this-let's eat.."


	10. Tightly

__**People! Let's just close our eyes, click our heels three times, and pretend that it hasn't been a month. Ok? Ok. Happy New Year to everyone, Tribe members or no. May this year be all blessings for everyone. And fanfic. Because did you SEE that season premier?**

**xo**

**. . . .**

_All the lonely houses stand like monuments to thieves._

_ -Neko Case, "Tightly."_

Gibbs and Sara slept through most of Friday and Saturday, exhausted from surgery and worry. The rest of the team hung around, anxious to be needed. They pottered around house talking lowly to each other, discussing Brandon Tracy in veiled, hushed words. The television remained tuned to football games, volume low.

The overcast remained and Tony took down the hammock, face drawn in regret. "Guess that's it," he said, folding it in his arms.

Abby shrugged. "Next year. By then Lamby will be able to enjoy it more."

He nodded. "You're positive there were no hits when you ran Tracy's name with Sara's?"

She splayed her fingers. "I ran every combination of terms I could think of—there is simply no connection, Tony. This looks like coincidence." She shrugged, one hand swirling the air near his face. "I think we should be happy for that. Gibbs will take her to the therapist when she's feeling better and she'll work out whatever flashback issues she's having. If we need to do anything from that point, we will." The wind picked up and she shivered in her light sweater. "Let's go back inside. It's cold and icky out here."

"Icky?" he teased.

"Icky," she repeated. "Cold, wet, grey, miserable. Not the weather for platform boots." She wore black lace-up sneakers and looked at them pointedly.

"I can't believe nothing came up," he said disgustedly. He was having trouble getting over the fact that his gut at been wrong. "It can't be coincidence that Sara can't stop talking about a kid being shot and then we that report on TV. That's just not right."

Abby paused on the doormat and wiped her feet. "Did you hear anything from your friend in Philly?"

"He caught a case as we were talking—something involving teenage girls. Couldn't say much."

They dropped the subject as they stepped through the front door. Sara and Gibbs were awake. Sara's curls were wild about her face and Gibbs was unshaven and droopy-eyed.

"Hey!" Tony sang out. "Look who's up! How you feeling, Buglet?"

She stared at him and held her arms out. "You," she mumbled around the pacifier. Gibbs hesitated but shifted her into Tony's arms.

"Wow," he mused, still smiling. "You weigh as much as a normal kid in this thing." Gibbs' glare meant a headslap later. He ignored it. "Hungry, Bug? Want some soup or bread or something?"

She pointed at Ziva's smoothie cup, abandoned on the sideboard while she did schoolwork at the dining table. He offered the straw and she deposited the pacifier in his collar.

He winced. "Ew, kiddo. That doesn't go there. Give it to Daddy."

She shook her head and directed the straw into her mouth. The contents were orangeish—mango? sherbet?—and she drank greedily. Tony watched with furrowed brows.

"Boss? I think she needs some real food. I'm gonna grab her a piece of…" he trailed off, unnoticed. Gibbs was bent over Ziva, helping her with a detailed timeline of the formation of the Monroe Doctrine. "Nevermind," he quipped.

Sara was still sucking down smoothie. "You like meatloaf, Bug?"She shrugged, looking like a jack-in-the-box when her shoulders went up from the edge of the cast. He kissed her cheek. "Abby makes a mean meatloaf. Who knew science would be so useful in the preparation of…loaved meat." He cut her a slice while he talked and put it on a plate. The mashed potatoes were still warm and he thanked Tim silently for replacing the lid when he'd taken his share.

"Here," he said, switching the smoothie for a forkful of meat. Sara hung her head forward, took it with her mouth rather than her hand, and hummed in delight. He couldn't blame her—it _was_ delicious. He reloaded and offered it again. And again. She let him feed her six big bites before pointing at the potatoes, so he gave her those, too, feeding her until he worried she would choke—how would they clear her airway when she was essentially wearing a permanent, triple-thick Kevlar bodysuit?

She grunted for more when he put the fork down. "Take a breath, Bug. I don't want you to get sick."

Abby loped in and retrieved a carafe of Caf-Pow from the back of the refrigerator. Tim was stockpiling them for her, it seemed.

"Is Lambykins finally eating real food?" she asked, lips stained red.

Sara's only response was to point at the potatoes and grunt again.

"Use your words," Tony coached, echoing Gibbs and the therapists. "Tell me what you want."

She grunted again and pointed.

"Hey, Lamby," Abby redirected. "Use your hands to make words. Say 'more.'" Abby demonstrated the sign for her. Sara watched, bewildered, then copied her and looked pointedly at the plate on the countertop.

"Good girl," she praised, signing and speaking together.

Tony rewarded her with a bite of potatoes and extra gravy. She signed for four more bites then pushed away from Tony with both hands. He held fast. "Does that mean you're finished?" he asked.

She nodded and dug in his collar for her pacifier.

Gibbs came in and took her easily into his arms. "Did you eat, sweet pea?"

Tony grinned, gloating a little. "Meatloaf and potatoes. Thank Abby for the comfort food."

He nodded and lowered his nose to the crook between Sara's neck and shoulder. He'd bathed her with some special, lavender-scented soap and she smelled soft and babyish. She snuggled against his chest and he marveled a little—she was still so willing to love him even as he'd put her through major surgery and three months of immobility. He marveled, too, at how radically his life had changed. If someone had said six months ago, _hey, how about you adopt a special-needs child from foster care_? He would have laughed or blown them off or delivered a stiff and hearty crack to the back of their head. Now he couldn't imagine not having her, spica cast, speech delay, and all.

Gibbs patted her diaper. "You need a change, baby girl."

She nodded against his shirt.

Tony's smile turned a bit uneasy. "That's all you, Boss. I'll grab some milk for her, though, while you scrub the decks."

He turned to leave, but paused, thoughtful. "Thanks for feeding her, DiNozzo."

Tony's grin widened and something akin to relief fluttered in his chest when Sara peered at him over Gibbs' shoulder and waved, paci planted between her lips. Was that how it felt to love a kid?

Ziva had her head in her hands and was scowling hard at the computer monitor. Tony massaged her shoulder gently and she yanked away, irritable. "Stop it," she complained. "I am trying to concentrate."

He pulled away, wounded. "Sor-_ry_. You seem so tense. Thought I could help."

"You cannot," she sniffed. "I need to think and you are encroaching upon my personal space."

"Is that an act of aggression, according to Monroe?"

She smirked, tension lifting. "Perhaps. I _have_ achieved independence from my colonizer."

Tony's green eyes went hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Nevermind—I meant nothing by it. Let me work."

He backed down, not wanting to make a scene and ruin the peaceful evening. "Fine. But you don't have to act like a surly teenager."

She scowled harder, eyes red with fatigue, and opened her mouth to retort, but Gibbs called from the living room.

"DiNozzo?"

He was on his feet in a second, grateful for a distraction. "You need milk? A pillow? Drugs?" He handed off the tumbler he'd filled with milk.

"I need the clicker." Gibbs' hands were occupied. "UCLA and Oregon State. Kickoff in two."

Tony switched to the pregame announcements. "That's it?"

"That's it." He went back to cuddling Sara, who was dozing with milk around her mouth.

"She hasn't said anything else about that boy, has she?" he ventured gently.

Gibbs glared. "No, and you don't need to remind her. I'll let you know if she brings it up again."

"Right," Tony agreed quickly. "I have a friend on the force up there, Boss. He said—"

He waved a hand. "She's safe. Go help Ziver with her work."

"Got kicked out," he moped.

"Then quit putzing and sit your butt down. OSU should be moving up in the PAC-12."

Tony sat, but sweet, sleeping Sara was enough to pull him out of his funk. "She's damn cute, Boss."

The game cut to commercial and Gibbs looked down, smiling. She'd been calmer since their nap in his bed, sleeping and taking milk from him like a baby. And he was as confident in his nurturing abilities as he was in the field. "Yep," he drawled. "She's cute and she's mine."

He wasn't assuaged. "Boss, I can't say that was a coinci—"

"Sh," Gibbs warned, cutting him off. "Game's on."

. . . .

The shrilling of Ziva's mobile phone shattered the early-morning quiet. She grabbed it on the second ring, grateful Tony opted to sleep at his own place.

"David," she rasped, shivering. The temperature had dropped further.

"Ziva, why aren't you awake?"

"Papa?" she replied, sitting up. "I asked you not call me again." She glanced at the clock—oh-four-hundred, exactly. There had been a time in her life when she'd be up by now. Up and running, taking orders or giving them.

In Tel Aviv, Eli David was enjoying a mid-morning espresso and a cigarette. "I asked you to go back to work," he said smoothly. Why haven't you listened to me?"

"I told you that was none of your business."

His tone turned ugly, demanding. "You should be protecting the men and women who protect your country, Ziva. You are an _immigrant_. You owe them that much. Why aren't you investigating rather than caring for Gibbs' _mamzer_?"

She sucked in a breath, offended. He'd called Sara a bastard-Jewish law's equivalent of an Untouchable. "How do you know Gibbs adopted a child?" she barked. "And how is that any of your concern?"

"Anything involving my daughter is a matter of my concern. What are you _doing_?

"I do not have to tell you. Goodbye, Papa."

"Ziva, I will put an end to this free-wheeling nonsense if you hang up on me."

She paused; he _did_ have the authority to cut off her benefits checks. "What do you want?" she asked, biting back a snarl.

"I want to tell you that there is trouble, Ziva. I have been trying to tell you that all along. Why haven't you listened to your father?"

Images of Gibbs cradling Sara danced across her brain. "I am listening now," she replied, feigning confidence.

"Several weeks ago the NCIS team solved the murder of a Lance Corporal named Mansour Ahmad. There is unrest, Ziva. He was Yemeni-American, and imams are calling his murder a hate crime. They are burning effigies of the man who killed him. They are calling for revenge."

"Corporal Martinelli is in jail, Papa. I do not know what they expect."

"Retribution. Restitution."

She nearly snorted. "Their country is in shambles. Saboteurs have destroyed their only chance at revolution and they're currently destroying their few natural resources. And Lance Corporal Ahmad wasn't even born in Yemen; his parents came here long before he was born."

David sighed, long-suffering. "I am sending operatives to Sana'a and I have spoken to Director Vance. Ziva, I fear this will get violent. You need to go back to work."

It took a long time for her to weigh his words. She'd secretly dreamed of university studies in art and literature, imagining the cool marble of a museum floor, the hush and ruffled papers of study halls. But her skills lay in espionage and assassination and he made it sound like she was needed.

"I will call Vance when the work day begins," she relented. "But not before."

"Thank you," he sighed slowly, speaking as if to an idiot or a child. She heard him take the final drag on his cigarette. "You are not meant to be a mother, Ziva. Whatever you're doing with that little girl should stop immediately. Let Gibbs raise a dead woman's bastard, if he chooses; you aren't to have anything to do with her. Consider this a warning." He hung up with a click and she blinked in the dark, wiping angrily at the single tear that slid down her cheek.

Vance had nothing for her. She paced as she spoke, a cup of tea going cold on the kitchen countertop. She offered to come back, to run interference, to help him put out the fire. He declined.

"Deputy Director David and I are working together to assess and intervene," he said calmly. "You don't need to come out of retirement, Ziva." He paused and she could almost hear him thinking about Somalia, about how she'd stumbled into the bullpen still filthy and bleeding. "You earned it," he said quietly, and ended the call.

She hung up, not quite relieved, only to have the phone ring again. It was Gibbs. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up before he said a word.

"I'm picking you up," he declared. "We're headed to Fairfax; the specialist called. Said she wants to see Sara. Sheehan said she's meeting us there." The car door slammed; he'd been wrestling Sara into her car seat as he spoke.

"I'll be waiting downstairs," she agreed. Eli's words didn't echo in her head as she dressed and grabbed her keys and phone.

He was there in ten, peering urgently through the passenger side window as she hurried down the walk and slid into the seat. She spun to wish Sara a good morning, but frowned, confused.

"Why is she facing backwards?"

He jerked the wheel, bouncing the new SUV into the street. "Kids gotta be over thirty pounds to be forward-facing. Sara weighs twenty-three, cast not included."

She ignored the tea sloshing in her stomach. "_Shaifeleh_? How are you feeling this morning?"

"Daddy," she mumbled around the pacifier.

"How long are you going to let her keep that?" she asked. "Five is too old for a _motzetz_."

Gibbs gunned the engine up the freeway entrance ramp. "She'll give it up when she's ready."

The receptionist ushered the three of them into a conference room. Dr. Minton and Dr. Sheehan sat at the table, paper cups and fat files before them.

Dr. Nevins shook Gibbs' hand. "Coffee is waiting. Let's not waste any time."

He cradled his sleeping daughter. "What's wrong with her?" he begged tiredly. "We aren't here because you have good news."

"Gibbs," Dr. Sheehan began gently. "Test results indicate Sara has some very serious issues. Please, sit down." He sat, still clutching Sara. Ziva sat next to him, balancing delicately on the edge of the chair.

Dr. Nevins pushed a chart across the table at him. "We ran a test on the tissue sample I took from Sara's arm," she began quietly. "It indicated that her body does not produce enough collagen."

Gibbs stared, blank. "And?"

"I've come to the conclusion that she has a condition called Osteogenesis Imperfecta."

"Brittle Bone Disease," Dr. Sheehan filled in. "Without proper collagen production, Sara's bones and joints are fragile. _Brittle_, as the name implies." She ducked her head in an odd, sad motion. "We reviewed her initial ER films from George Washington University Hospital; the diagnosis explains the high volume of fractures she received during that particular assault."

Gibbs exhaled slowly and Sara rolled deeper against his chest. He peered into her sleeping face and remembered a day not long after her initial release from GW's peds unit. He'd been standing in front yard with his father, speculating about the hedges that so badly needed a trim. Sara was in his arms when a woman stepped close to them and smiled widely. _Wow, she is stunning_, she'd said, looking down at her own toddler son, snug in his stroller. _You are going to be in so much trouble when she becomes a teenager. _Sara had been wrapped in a light blanket; the woman hadn't seen the external fixator drilled into her tiny, fragile bones or the sling that protected her shattered clavicle.

Possession and resentment washed over him. "There's no cure," he said lowly, looking back up at the doctors.

"No," Dr. Nevins replied. "But Sara has the mildest form of the disease. Her life should be fairly normal."

"What does that mean? What do we do for her?" he asked, trying not to beg. Was he losing her?

Dr. Sheehan lifted her chin from her knuckles. "This is a very rare diagnosis, Gibbs, and her case is very, very mild." She made the weird, ducking motion with her head again. "I don't doubt that Sara would have gone her whole life without knowing she had this disease. Had Godwin not battered her so terribly we would never have come to this conclusion."

He nodded tightly and silently acknowledged what she was telling him; Gibbs wouldn't be in the picture if Godwin hadn't beaten her half to death. Neither would a proper diagnosis. Should he be thankful?

Ziva put her hand on Sara's arm. "If it cannot be cured, can it be treated?"

All three doctors shared sad looks. "Unfortunately," Dr. Minton ventured, "there are few treatment options beyond fracture management. Drug therapies haven't proven to be effective for OI type one. Researchers are still working on an appropriate cocktail of bisphosphonates for low collagen levels."

"Fracture management," Gibbs repeated. "So I can bank on her being in a body cast for the rest of her life?"

Dr. Minton shook his big, blocky head. "Absolutely not. Unless breaks are severe—like Sara's osteotomies—long-term immobilization isn't recommended. Childen with OI need exercise to maintain muscle strength and bone density. We have some information here about how to maintain a "break box" to triage fractures. We can talk more later about a low-impact exercise regimen."

Dr. Sheehan put her hand on Sara's back, right over the bodice of the cast. Gibbs had dressed her in a colorful fleece tunic that morning to ward off the chill and now he wished she could feel the soft fabric against her skin. "I have already written a letter and had a card drawn up for ER visits," she said quietly. "They'll prevent child abuse allegations."

Gibbs' mouth went dry. "There were claims before Godwin," he stated flatly.

She shook her head and waved a hand to cut him off. "Sara has all the emotional hallmarks of a child who has been abused and neglected—anxiety, hyper-vigilance, social withdrawal, disassociation—so I'm positive there is only a low chance that those accusations were caused by her disease. Most ER physicians aren't looking for metabolic conditions, especially in a child who'd had three placements in one year. They're interest lies in immediate safety, and with good reason."

Dr. Nevins checked her watch and smiled. "I'm sorry, but I need to leave soon. I just want to say that Sara will need regular check-ups. There are other issues associated with OI and we want to catch them before they can have an impact on her quality of life. Please call me if you have questions, and I'd like to schedule an appointment for when Sara's cast comes off." She shook Gibbs' hand and left.

"What other _issues_?" Ziva asked a bit too quickly.

Dr. Minton ticked off a list on his broad fingers. "Hearing loss, nearsightedness, scoliosis, connective tissue damage, and bone deformity, though the last is rare with her type. Yearly exams will be sufficient." He smiled. "This is not fatal. Sara can have a very happy and active life as long as everyone is vigilant and proactive."

Sara stirred, moaning softly. Her eyes flickered. Gibbs reached into the stroller basket, retrieved a sipper of milk, and thumbed away the pacifier. She drank without protest and drifted in his arms.

Dr. Minton excused himself, citing an evaluation with another child. Dr. Sheehan waved absently and watched Sara with interest, auburn curls falling around her face.

"When did she start regressing?" she asked, and dragged a hand over Sara's curls.

Ziva, stiff with confusion and sadness, finally felt useful. "After surgery," she reported softly. "But it got worse when we all got home. She refuses to speak or feed herself and will not allow Gibbs to be out of her sight."

"Classic regression," the doctor replied. "I'm glad you're encouraging it, Gibbs. She's bonding with you."

Ziva nearly scoffed. "She is five and acting like an infant. How is that healthy?"

Dr. Sheehan put a hand on her good arm. "She has gone back to a place in her mind where there is no pain or fear or hunger, and from there she's learning that Gibbs will nurture and provide for her—_love_ her. I think you'll find that her therapist will support the regression so that Sara does not experience attachment issues later." She shrugged a little. "We kinda forced her into it, didn't we? Took away her mobility, put her back in diapers..."

Ziva nodded, not convinced. "So this is the surgeon's fault? Had she not had the operation she would be fine?"

Dr. Sheehan smiled. "Sara _is_ fine, Ziva. She's more than fine, actually. Many of us in the medical and psychological communities believe regression is a good thing for kids like Sara. Children who have survived trauma and violence need a way to heal and move on. She'd learning to love without fear or condition. She's getting a second chance."

Ziva felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. "I understand," she said lowly, and stood. "Perhaps we should go, Gibbs. I'm sure you have other patients today, Dr. Sheehan."

He eased the spout of the sipper from Sara's mouth. "Thanks, Doc," he said meaningfully. "We'll be seeing you soon, I guess."

"Take your resources. Look over them. I suggest a family meeting tonight."

He nodded and lowered Sara into the stroller, buckling the newly extended harness around her. Tim found the straps weren't long enough to reach around the cast, so he and Abby had engineered extensions. Sara had been happy at first, then mad that she couldn't reach the sunshade to pull it down around her. She'd snarled. Tony had tickled her feet and the tantrum ended quickly. Now she was asleep again, little body working hard to repair itself. _Or was it_? Gibbs thought idly.

Ziva slid into the back seat. "Take me home, please," she requested.

He waited for her to stop studying Sara's sleeping face. "I want you with me," he replied calmly.

"No," she argued, not sounding particularly angry. "I would like to go home. I need some space."

"You can have the guest room." His tone meant the disagreement was over and Ziva fell silent, gloomy. She needed time to deal with Sara's diagnosis; she didn't want to admit how badly it hurt her. She shook her head bitterly, feeling as though two dreams had been crushed in one single, grey morning.

Ziva found herself lethargic and heavy-limbed when they got home, but thankful for the dim guest room and Gibbs' quiet movement downstairs. She was sad—deeply sad—and oddly lonely. It was a new emotion for her; she'd been _alone_ before, even friendless, but never had she felt the absence of kin so intensely. She considered calling Tony, but her fingers dialed Dr. Loeb instead.

She answered on the second ring, a smile in her voice. "Ziva!" she said happily. "I'm so happy to hear from you! How was baby Sara's surgery?"

The mere sound of her therapist's voice started hard tears. A long minute of sniffling and biting her lip passed before she could speak. "Sara is _regressing_," she said forcefully.

Dr. Loeb's voice went soft. "And watching Gibbs take care of her like a baby is hard, isn't it?"

She nodded, wishing dully that she didn't have to actually articulate what she felt. "It is not fair," she complained tearfully, recognizing that she sounded like a jealous older sibling. Her self-loathing doubled.

"What isn't fair?"

She swallowed. "I do not know."

"Can I guess?" Dr. Loeb's voice is soft and strangely hopeful.

"Fine," she grouched.

"It's not that Sara is allowed to be a baby that's making you green-eyed, it's the fact that she's allowed to heal. To have a second chance with a family that loves her unconditionally."

Ziva squared her shoulders. "You are the second person to say that today. The pediatrician recognized the behavior during a meeting." She took a breath. "Sara has Brittle Bone Disease. It is a mild case, but she will have to be careful. Always careful."

"That's upsetting," Dr. Loeb acknowledged. "But it's not a death sentence. Far from it, actually. What's really going on, Ziva?"

"My father called this morning. He wanted me to accept an NCIS investigation in Yemen."

"Wow. Did you consider it?"

She shifted on the edge of the mattress. "Briefly. But I spoke to my former director and he said he did not want me to go."

Dr. Loeb sighed. "I'm glad for that. What else did Eli say?"

"He called Sara a _mamzer_. He said I was not to help care for her anymore. That I was not intended to be a mother."

"Harsh."

She nodded again, not caring that the doctor couldn't see it. "He said he was giving me a warning."

"I have two things to say about that. One: your father is mourning the loss of control. He still had some contact with you when you were with NCIS. He wants it back, and force is the only way he knows how to do that. Two: tell someone about this, please. I am worried for your safety."

Ziva almost snorted. "I can take care of myself. But…fine. I will tell Gibbs."

"Thank you," Dr. Loeb sighed. "And why is he so invested in keeping you away from Sara? Her presence in your family means so much to you."

"Exactly," she replied softly. She cradled her phone between her ear and shoulder and picked at the lining of her cast. It was itchy and hot. How did Sara feel? Was she afraid of being smothered in scratchy cotton batting? "I should go," she said quietly. "Thank you for talking to me."

Dr. Loeb was smiling on the other end. "I'm glad you called, Ziva. Take care of yourself. Will I still be seeing you this week?"

"Yes," she said resolutely. "You will. Goodbye."

She tiptoed down the stairs and sat gingerly on the sofa, where Gibbs reclined with Sara in his arms. His head was back and his feet were crossed on the coffee table before him.

"What, Ziver?" he asked without opening his eyes.

She dragged her index finger over the instep of Sara's foot. "My father called this morning. He has called a few times, actually. But today was different."

He opened one eye, silently asking her to go on.

"He said that I was not to come here anymore. That you adopting and raising Sara was your business, not mine. He also said that there was a problem in Yemen and he asked Director Vance to send me there to…investigate."

Gibbs lifted his head. "What did Vance say?"

"That there was no need for me go to anywhere."

He clenched his jaw. "And why the hell does he care if you're here or at the Navy Yard or in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho?"

She shrugged. "He said I was not meant to be a mother. I think…" she paused to clear her throat. "I think he feels I do not deserve it."

Gibbs put his head back against the cushions. "He doesn't deserve you. Never did. Why you didn't tell me sooner that he was harassing you?"

Ziva looked down. "Your daughter got a life-altering diagnosis today."

"I read the pamphlets," he groused. "She'll be ok. It sucks, but she'll be ok. But I want you around. She needs a role model. A _female_ role model. I think she picked you."

Sara stirred, stretching both hands over her head. She blinked. "Daddy?"

Gibbs sat up so she could see Ziva. "How's my sleepy girl?"

She blinked again and sighed. "_Wan'milk_."

He shifted her into Ziva's arms but she balked and pulled away. "No, Gibbs. I do not think—"

"Take her," he said gently. "I'll get her cup."

She nodded mutely and held her arms out. They met fiberglass-to-fiberglass. "_Shaifeleh_," she exclaimed softly, weighing her, "you are so heavy in your body armor."

Sara frowned. "Yeah. _S'hard_."

"It is protecting your fragile bones. Tell me—what is the first thing you want to do when your big cast comes off?"

She faded out, seawater eyes drifting around the room. Ziva knew she wasn't getting an answer and rocked instead, pressing her cheek to Sara's brow.

Gibbs returned with a sip-cup full of milk and shoved a pillow under Ziva's bad arm. "Hold her up a little so she doesn't choke. She should take the whole thing in one go."

Ziva settled the spout of the cup between Sara's lips and watched as she drank with tiny gulps, breathing noisily between swallows. It was a sweet moment, and she found herself overwhelmed with the urge to give, to mother. She recalled, too, a similar experience with Tali. Ziva, six and proud, held her baby sister and gave her a bottle while her mother and the housekeeper hovered close, fearing she'd drop Tali or hurt her in a fit of jealousy. Ziva had done neither; she'd simply fed her, then put her to her shoulder and burped her. Manya and Rivka erupted in laugher when the baby belched loudly and spat formula down the back of her shirt. Ziva, new to all things baby, recoiled with a gag of her own.

She smiled at the memory and met Sara's wide, even gaze with her own. "Hello," she said calmly. "I have not seen you with your eyes open in many days."

Sara stopped drinking and smiled.

"You are very cute," she continued. "How many times has someone said that today? And yesterday? The day before? Many, I am sure." Perhaps she was rambling. She didn't care; she didn't want the smile on Sara's peaked little face to fade.

"Zeeba," she slurred around the cup.

"_Shaifeleh_," she cooed back.

Gibbs lowered himself to the cushions and slung an arm around Ziva's shoulders. "You need to tell DiNozzo about your father."

"I will," she agreed, not looking away from Sara. "Tonight. After campfire."

He smirked at that. "You miss working?"

"I miss…no. Not really. I have never had this freedom, Gibbs. It's delicious. I do not want to give it up."

"You're gonna need a job sometime."

"A job is one thing," she countered, handing him the empty sipper. "Midnight call-outs are another."

He laughed a little, but sobered and looked at her deliberately. "You got a lot of potential, Ziver. Don't waste it on something that doesn't deserve you."

"Thank you," she murmured, flattered and shy.

Sara chose that moment to open her eyes. "Zeeba," she sighed.

"_Shaifeleh_."

She held her arms out for her father and he drew her close, nuzzling her neck and stroking her curls away from her face. He'd have to wash her hair tonight. "You want some real food, baby?" he asked, face still pressed to hers.

"Jus'you, Daddy,"she breathed.

He grinned and blew a gentle raspberry on her bare shoulder. "Just me?"

She giggled. "Yeah. N'Zeeba."

"And Ziva," he agreed, and pulled both of them against his chest.


	11. Bells For Her

__**I did NOT expect the outpouring of support I got with the last chapter of "Treading Water," but it was so meaningful and lovely-thank you. Thank you so much for the validation and love and all those things. You are all wonderful. xoxo**

**...**

_I said, you don't need my voice girl, you have your own._

_-Tori Amos, "Bells For Her."_

Ziva was working at the dining room table when Tony got to Gibbs' house. He slid out of his wet overcoat and approached carefully, not wanting her to snap at him like she did the day before.

"Hey," he ventured. "How was your day?"

She closed the laptop with a snap. "It was…ok," she lied tentatively, turning in her chair to face him. She couldn't meet his eyes. "I am glad you are here." She put both arms around his waist and pushed her face against his shirt.

He was stunned but recovered fast and returned the embrace. "I'm glad I'm here, too. What's going on? Why the family circle?"

She pulled away and cut her eyes toward the window. "Sara is very fragile."

"I'm sure McBubbleWrap can make a space suit for her."

He got the smile he'd been looking for. "I do not doubt that is a good idea," she agreed. "We will get her a bulletproof vest and matching windbreaker. She will fit right in with the rest of you."

He grinned. "She does, anyway. She asleep?" A squawk issued from the next room, along with running water. "Guess not."

In the kitchen, Sara was prone on the countertop, hair full of flower-scented lather.

"Buglet!" he cried. "A silver-haired giant is filling your hair with bubbles! I'll hold him back! Get away before you float away!" She giggled and waved. He made a face of defeat. "Never mind," he sighed dramatically when Gibbs shot him a glare. "Guess you'll just have to put up with it."

"M'getting a bath," she told him.

"Good. Get the stink off ya." He picked up a washcloth, wet it with some soapsuds, and wiped her face and arms. "Now you smell like roses."

"Lavender," Gibbs corrected, rinsing the shampoo from Sara's hair. "Abby and McGee here yet?"

"It's only five, Boss. I skipped out early." He looked away, twisting the cloth in his hands.

"Why?"

Of course Gibbs would see through him. "Vance is sending me to Sana'a. We got a situation going on."

"Ahmad case?"

"And more. We'll talk later."

Gibbs lifted Sara off the counter. "Get something to eat while I change her."

"Any meatloaf left?"

"Nope," he called back, already up the steps. "Sara ate it all."

Abby and McGee tumbled in the front door at a quarter after six, apologies already forming on their lips.

"I am so sorry," Abby gushed, pale cheeks colored in remorse. "We have all this evidence pouring in from Yemen via next-day air and I couldn't get ahead of myself with organizing and prioritizing…"

Gibbs put both hands on her shoulders. "It's fine. I'm glad you're here."

"Yemen?" Ziva asked innocently.

Tim nodded, Adam's apple bobbing. "A US Navy E-2 Seaman Apprentice was captured in Al-Hudayah last week. His remains were found in Sana'a yesterday. He'd been shot execution-style."

She blanched. Al-Hudayah had been a Soviet stronghold and they'd armed an Al Qaeda faction. She'd been there, patrolling, protecting Israeli forces on the ground. The heat was oppressive and she'd gotten ill from dehydration before her commanding officer pulled her off the mission. She'd gone home to shaming and shunning. Eli wouldn't let her eat at his table for the entire month she'd needed to recover.

Tony touched her hand. "The Navy thinks they have the perpetrators in custody, but they want McSnoopy and me to have a look at the scene. We fly out tomorrow afternoon."

"You cannot go!" Ziva blurted, astounded and vaguely horrified. "You do not speak the language! You do not know the culture! You are totally unprepared!"

"You speak the language," he replied casually. "You know the culture. And you quit."

She crossed her arms and glowered, looking, once again, like the lethal Mossad ninja she'd been all those years ago. He was turned on by it—she could tell by his reddening face—and it made her glare harder. "We will talk later," she growled under her breath.

"Ok," he agreed mildly.

Gibbs' palm cut across the back of his head. "Talk later _at home_," he growled, exasperated. "We have business to take care of. Sit—all of you."

They sat. Ziva pushed the computer away.

He began coarsely, businesslike. "Sara was diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta Type One this morning," he said. "Her body doesn't produce enough collagen and it makes her bones very fragile."

Tim's face fell. "I am so sorry, Boss. I can't believe I missed it—all the signs are there. The history of fractures, delayed development, small stature, muscle laxity, loose joints…I should've known."

Gibbs cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "There's no way you could've known. It's a very rare disease—"

"Six or seven people per hundred-thousand," Tim interrupted. "But the signs are so—"

"Not in a kid who has been abused."

McGee shrugged and studied his hands on the tabletop. Gibbs addressed the group again. "Type One is the mildest form of OI, but Sara's bones are still fragile. We need to be careful—not too much rough play, no contact sports, no jumping on trampolines or out of airplanes."He looked at Tim again. "I need supplies. Sara needs a "break box" so we can triage fractures before we take her to the hospital."

McGee nodded anxiously. "I can get them easily from medical supply distributors."

Gibbs pushed a list across the table at him. "Get what you can. I'll ask Duck for the rest." He cleared his throat. "I also ordered a MedicAlert pendant for Sara to wear, but should you be alone with her and she breaks, do not take her to the ER—we need to maintain a relationship with one set of physicians, and they won't treat her without me. Painkillers and immobilizers will be in the break box. Take what she needs if I'm not here and wait."

He surveyed the group; everyone looked stricken, fearful. Tony, as usual, was the first to speak up. "So we're supposed to drug her and listen to her scream if you're not home? Not fair, Boss."

"_Fair_ isn't the point, DiNozzo. It's what we need to do to keep her home and safe."

He stroked his stubbled chin. "How often do you plan to leave her alone with us?"

Gibbs glared at him. "Things happen. You need to be prepared."

"Her diagnosis was mild," Tim interjected. "That indicates an average of three or fewer breaks per year. That doesn't mean there won't be more or less…"

Tony smirked, wishing he wasn't so rattled by the diagnosis. "Gotcha, McWikipedia. Should we carry her on a pillow or something?"

"No!" Abby snapped, green eyes wet. "Bonding time is super important for Sara—she needs lots of hugs and kisses and gentle playtime. I think the point is that she _is_ going to break, no matter how careful we are. We just need to be prepared to deal with it."

Ziva nodded and spoke in urgent staccato. "I agree with Abby. We need to be prepared and proactive."

All heads around the table bobbed in agreement.

"Any questions?" Gibbs asked, eyebrows up.

The heads shook.

"There are pamphlets on the sideboard. Read up." He got up and shambled toward the living room, fatigue evident in the hunch of his broad shoulders."Shout if you need me—game's on."

Tony frowned. "You're not gonna work on the boat?"

"Nope," he replied from the couch.

They shared brief, surprised glances—Gibbs was _tired_. It dawned on them that most men his age were retired or close to it, bouncing the occasional visiting grandchild on their knees, finding hobbies, taking vacations. Their child-rearing years were over. Gibbs had just signed on to fatherhood again, half in love, half in some strange attempt at redemption. And Sara's life was one of persistent heartbreak—abuse, surgery, diagnosis—all of it heavy. There hadn't been much joy in her brief existence and that, too, had to weigh on him.

_No wonder he doesn't want to work on his boat,_ Tony thought morosely. _He might not ever enjoy it with his daughter_.

Everyone decided to leave Gibbs and Sara alone; the two of them needed a quiet Daddy-daughter evening. But as they stood, gathered their belongings and donned coats, a small cry came down from the second floor and Gibbs was on his feet and up the stairs in a flash.

_Lithe_, Tony mused, helping Ziva into her new weather-resistant jacket. _No, not lithe. Spry_. There was youth still in his step, even more so as he carried his sniffling little girl down the stairs.

"Nightmare?" he asked.

Gibbs kissed Sara's head. "Forgot the pacifier."

Tim found it under a stack of papers. "You might want to get a few extras, Boss."

"I will," he said quietly, nesting it between Sara's lips.

She wiped her face and put her arms out to Abby. "You," she begged.

Abby's wide smile lit up the room. "Lambykins! I was afraid you didn't like me anymore!"

Sara pulled back to study her face, puzzled and remorseful. "_Love_ Abby," she mumbled around the soother. She laid her head down and hummed tunelessly, fighting sleep. Tony snapped a picture with his phone.

"Just for a minute, sweet pea," Gibbs warned. "Then you're going back to bed."

"Want me to read the farmer book?" Abby asked, swaying back and forth.

"Yeah," Sara sighed.

Tim jumped up. "I'll follow you up the stairs," he said quickly. "I wouldn't want you to lose your balance—she's heavy in that cast."

Tony gave Ziva a raised eyebrow and they bid everyone goodnight. Sara peeked over Abby's shoulder. "'Morrow, Zeeba?"

"Tomorrow, _shaifeleh_. _Laila tov_."

The rain had relented but the wind was still sharp. Ziva burrowed into her jacket as Tony started the car and cranked the heater. She was quiet as they pulled away from the curb and put distance between the Charger and Gibbs' home.

"I fly out tomorrow morning," he said, knowing she was mulling over his travel plans. "But I shouldn't be gone longer than a week."

She nodded sullenly. Neither of them said a word until they pulled up in front of her building. Tony got out of the car, too, and followed her inside, peeling out of his coat the second he closed the door behind him. It was hot in her condo—the thermostat read nearly eighty degrees.

"Shouldn't you be at home, packing?" she asked, back to him as she straightened up. She'd left a bit of a mess that morning.

"Maybe," he conceded, picking an apple from the bowl on the back of the kitchen counter. "But I wanted to spend some time with you. I'm going to miss you."

Ziva softened. "Me, too." She stopped fussing with the throw pillows and leaned into him, asking wordlessly for a hug. "I am sorry I was not kind to you yesterday. I have been a little edgy lately."

"On edge?" he asked innocently.

"Yes." She toyed with the belt loops on the back of his pants. "My father has called three times in the last two weeks."

Tony stiffened. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"He was calling to shame me for quitting NCIS. He has lost all control of me and he does not like it one bit."

"Well he needs to get the hell over it. Why does he care? You cut ties with him a long time ago. Or him with you…I never could figure that out."

Her breath was warm through his shirt. "He called my coursework _nonsense_. He implied that I was never going to be successful as anything other than a government agent. And he called Sara a _mamzer_. Do you know what that means, Tony?"

"A bastard," he replied, secretly proud of himself.

"It is the lowest low," she explained. "She's not just illegitimate, she's untouchable, un-employable, unmarriable. It's a cruel thing to say about anyone, but…a little girl? Inexcusable."

He nodded, sad. No wonder she'd been prone to outbursts; she was under tremendous pressure. Ziva was mired in the internal pressure to perform that was strictly her own, and the external pressure from her father that said what she was doing was wrong. He hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I'm sorry you've been having such a tough time. I wish I didn't have to go."

She pulled away. "That was my father's doing. Initially he asked me to go to Yemen, but Vance would not bring me back in so he asked for you. I am sure of it, Tony."

"He knows about us?"

She sighed. "He knows Gibbs adopted Sara. He knows I spend a lot of time with them. He knows I am thinking about university. He knows everything. He has people everywhere."

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "Should we…be more careful?"

"No," she replied sadly. "It does not matter." She looked at him imploringly. "I would just like to be happy. Why is that too much to ask?"

He sat on the couch and tugged her hand. "Put your PJs on and we'll watch a movie together. Anything you want. Even _The Sound of Music_."

Ziva lifted her chin. "I want to watch _Taxi Driver_."

He gawked. Psychological thrillers were not her favorite genre. The language was too obtuse for her, the characters' motivations too opaque. "Seriously? I didn't think you liked that movie."

"I do not. But the idea of going postal appeals to me right now. The DVD is on top of the television. Queue it up while I change my clothes."

"No problem. And good work on that idiom, Zi. _Going postal_ isn't one I'd thought I'd hear from you."

She emerged from the bedroom in her favorite yoga pants and a ratty grey sweater. "I read a lot, Tony."

"True." She reached for the remote and he scooped it away, holding it high over his head. "Promise me before we start this film that it is _in no way_ a metaphor for our lives."

"Neither of us are insomniacs," she said pointedly, brushing her fingers over the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Neither of us are cab drivers."

He studied her face. "Ok. You worry me sometimes, David—you _can_ kill someone with a paperclip."

"A credit card," she countered.

"A tea kettle."

"Satin underthings."

Tony groaned in arousal. "Are we watching this or what?"

"Tell me about the case," she replied urgently. "I want to know why my father is taking you away from me."

"Seaman Apprentice captured on the beach in Al Hadayah, taken to Sana'a, shot in front of an empty supermarket. The place had been looted…everyone's starving."

She shrugged. "They've been promised millions of dollars in famine aid over the last few years and received almost none of it. People are hungry. That level of desperation, Tony…"

"I know that I can't understand it. I know that I'm spoiled."

She raised her chin and elbowed him gently with her cast. "Yes, you are. Can I see the file?"

He reluctantly handed over a slim file containing a two-by-three photograph of the victim, an eight-by-ten of the crime scene, and one of the perpetrator—a low-level insurgent for the Islamic Jihad of Yemen—named Kief Rahman. She passed over his photo to study the victim again.

"What was his name, Tony?"

"David Almsolino. Born in Tacoma. Enlisted right after high school. First time he'd ever left American soil and…"

Ziva studied the single crime-scene photo. "He was shot in front of this wall?"

Her fingers grazed over it. To the left of the bullet holes was a stack of boxes advertising snacks in French and Arabic.

He sneered. "Yeah. They gave him an orange soda first."

She brought the photo close to her face. "Tony, I think this is Sara's boy."

He leaned over her shoulder, breathing softly in the curls behind her right ear. He didn't want to admit that he'd been thinking that since Vance came down with the assignment, but his gut had begun to tumble and didn't stop until Tim had ordered an everything pizza for lunch. Though he was sure the tossing had nothing to do with hunger.

"She said over and over that they shot him. They shot him by the wall. When was he killed?"

"Friday."

She gave him a knowing look, her brown eyes large in her pale face. "The day of Sara's surgery."

They studied the photographs in silence for a moment, until Ziva sat back, laid Rahman's photo down, and tucked her right leg under her."I do not know what it is," she said, soft and resigned. "A sight, a sense, some kind of intelligence—but she saw this, Tony. She saw that sailor's murder." She watched his expression darken into one of mild incredulity, perhaps even skepticism. "And if you do not believe it, then why were you so anxious to check into her past? Why did you have Abby digging into all her foster placements, trying to find some connection to that boy they found in North Philadelphia?"

He stood and began to pace. "I don't _know_, I just thought she was remembering something, maybe some repressed memory. I wanted to figure it out. I wanted to _help _her. This, though? _Her_ helping_ us_? It's weird. How would you explain that to Vance or McGee? _Oh hey, guys, Sara—little, tiny, sick, traumatized Sara—saw this happen while under general anesthesia so just go with what she says and we'll have this solved in no ti—_"

Ziva socked him gently in the stomach, cutting off his rant. "Stop it!" she snapped.

He was incensed, not chastised. "Or you'll what—kick my ass?"

She shoved him away. "I will _not_, but stop mocking me. And her. I was not implying that you would tell them what she said, I was simply saying that Sara saw this in whatever state of consciousness she was in at the time." She took a breath to calm down. "Honestly, I am shocked that you didn't put it together."

Tony threw himself down on the sofa. "Maybe I didn't want to. It sounds like superstitious nonsense."

"Maybe it is," she conceded. "But we cannot deny the fact that there is a very real thing happening between Sara and the world."

He looked at her. "Is there some kind of Jewish mystical explanation for this? Maybe it's taught in the Kabbalah."

Ziva rolled her eyes, smiling. He'd found an old copy of an English-language Kabbalist text and teased her about magic pilgrimages and the bible code. He'd been merciless about it, and for more than a week. _Is this like that Dan Brown book? Are you a crusader for some secret holy war? Can I join you? Can I have a cool hooded robe?_

"Truthfully," she started, glancing at him again with those big, dark eyes, "there is a Jewish idea that teaches that people—children—with special needs are closer to understanding divine presence than…_normal_ people. They can, in the words of the rabbis, "know God" in ways that you and I cannot."

"So the more normal you are the less holy?" He made a hissing sound with his mouth. "No wonder I failed catechism."

One of her small, round shoulders came up. She graced him with a tiny smile. "Perhaps."

He smiled a little. "You think Sara is some kind of divine creature, sent to us to be a messenger from whatever omnipotent being may exist on the ceiling?"

"The ceiling?"

He frowned. "I thought that was why the nuns taught us to look up when we prayed."

Ziva laughed softly. "Sara is no angel, Tony. She is a very corporeal little girl with very grave needs."

He slumped into the cushions. "And she's cute."

"And she is cute," she echoed, sitting back so their shoulders touched.

"And _you're_ cute."

She gave him a sneaky, side-eyed smile and batted her lashes. "Perhaps we should save the film for when you return."

He kissed her softly. "You have bedroom eyes."

She kissed back, hard. "Then maybe we ought to be in the bedroom, yes?"

. . . .

Tony buckled his belt and resolved himself to the predicament; Ziva was sleeping in his shirt. While he was loathe to wake her, it was cold outside and his formal overcoat would not be enough. He also knew that she'd be furious if he left for a trip to the other side of the globe and didn't say a proper goodbye.

Hesitantly, with only the barest touches to her shoulder, he dragged her from sleep. _Deep_ sleep; it took him three tries. "Zi?" he whispered. "Hey, ninja? I gotta go."

She blinked up at him without a sigh. "Early," she moaned.

He laughed softly. "Says the woman who regularly wakes at four to run. C'mon Lazy Bones—I need my shirt back."

"No," she retorted sullenly, and snuggled deeper beneath the comforter. "You are going. I get to keep it. There is a sweater in the closet. Wear that."

He didn't stop himself from whining. "But it's _green_, Zee-vah. I'm wearing blue and grey."

She rolled her eyes and shimmed out of his shirt, handing it over without getting out of bed. She knew the thought of her naked beneath the covers was enough to make him crazy.

It was. He groaned aloud. "Zi, seriously, I have to go. Why are you making this harder for me?"

She still didn't push the blankets down. "Because I want you to stay."

He bent and kissed her full on the mouth. "I can't." He hesitated again. "Do me a favor," he said.

She pulled the comforter down. Her brown eyes were sharp and black in the dim. "What?"

"Go to Gibbs' while I'm gone. I don't want you to be alone."

Ziva nodded and didn't smile. "I might not stay every night, but I will spend days there if it makes you feel better."

"Just until I come back. I love you."

She drew him down with her good arm so his cheek rested on her brow. "Me, too. Be safe."

"Always," he murmured into her hair. "Go back to sleep."

"Be safe," she said again, drowsily.

He double checked the locks on his way out.

. . . .

Gibbs swung open the front door before Leon and Jackie Vance could ring the bell. They each wore a hesitant smile and a heavy coat; he ushered them in before the cold air leeched in.

"Good to see you," he said gruffly, still a little tired. Sara had kept him up all night, cranky and in pain.

Jackie handed him a fresh bag of whole-bean coffee from a small-batch estate in Costa Rica. "Where should I brew this? You look like something the cat dragged in."

She meant no harm and he smiled. "Thanks. Kitchen." He turned to follow her, but Leon waved him down on the couch.

"Let her do it," he said warmly. "She's been dying to take care of someone since we left your adoption party. Where is that baby, anyway?"

"In bed."

"Bad night?"

Gibbs sat heavily on the sofa. "Yup."

Jackie returned, smiling kindly. "I have a few things for Sara. I know her clothing options are limited right now, so I had some of Kayla's old dresses altered. Is she in a size three, normally? Or a four?"

"Two," he replied, smiling a little. "She's small for her age."

"A three is small, Gibbs. _Two_ is just…_beyond_. I brought fours and fives with the collars closed up. They should fit right over the cast and not gape so much. You don't need cold wind blowing down that baby's neck." She pulled four tennis dresses from a bag, all long-sleeved. Panels had been sewn into the button plackets that would keep them snug around her neck and chest. It was a kind gesture for her to do such a thing; he was touched.

"Thanks, Jackie. Really—Sara will appreciate having more than two outfits."

She smiled. "It was no problem. I also have a grocery delivery service dropping off a small order of fresh fruit and vegetables once a week. I know it's hard to get out when you have a man down. Went though it after Jarod had his appendix out. It ruptured before they could get to it, so he was pretty sick for a while afterwards." Upstairs, Sara cried out shrilly for her father. Jackie gave him a wry smile. "I'd offer to get her…"

He returned the smile. "Gimme a minute to get her changed."

He bound up the stairs and into Sara's room. She was awake and crying softly. The pacifier was nowhere to be found and her bunny was tossed over the lamp.

"What's wrong, sweet pea?" he cooed, picking her up. "Why did your rabbit decide to jump ship?"

She pressed her wet face beneath his chin. "I wanna be up."

He swayed and pressed a kiss to her curls. "Did you need to cry for that? Or could you use your words like a big girl?" She stuffed her thumb in her mouth and stared into space. Gibbs sighed. "Thought so. Let's change you and go downstairs—we have company."

Sara loved a good party; she was immediately interested. "Who?"

"Leon and Jackie. Remember Kayla and Jarod? They gave you the pop-tent for when the weather gets nice?" She nodded, thumb still in her mouth. "Well their mommy and daddy are downstairs. Jackie brought you some new dresses to try on."

He laid her on the floor and changed her diaper quickly, then wrapped the green blanket around her shoulders and toted her down the stairs.

Jackie jumped up from her seat as soon as he hit the bottom riser. "Sara!" she exclaimed gently. "You poor thing! That is one very big cast. How do you feel?"

Sara stared, blank, but held her arms out to her in a silent request to be held. Gibbs was shocked; Sara had recently acquired a case of stranger-danger, but she nestled right into Jackie's arms like she belonged there.

"Little peanut," she cooed, enthralled. "Want to try on some things I brought for you?" Sara hummed and Jackie pulled a purple dress over her head, and threaded her arms through the sleeves like a pro. "There," she said. "Are you more comfortable now?"

She nodded and felt the front of the dress with both hands. It was cotton and had obviously been well loved; the fabric was washed to comfortable, faded softness. "Nice," she murmured, and popped her thumb back in her mouth.

Gibbs grinned. "You look beautiful, sweet pea. Want to stay with Jackie and Leon while I get us some coffees?"

"Wan' milk, Daddy," she mumbled, distracted by her new clothes. She made the sign for _please_ before he left.

He listened to the Vances entertain Sara while he retrieved coffees. Alone, he wondered if he wasn't doing her a disservice by raising her by himself. Did she long for a mother? Had he been naïve in thinking he could provide everything she needed? Could the team be enough family for her?

_Yes_, he said to himself, if falsely confident. They were more than enough; how many children had so many warm, loving adults in their lives?

He didn't jump when the back door creaked open and Ziva sneaked through, red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. She'd been crying and was valiantly trying to hide it.

"Good morning," she said softly, unable to meet his gaze.

"DiNozzo's gone?" he asked, adding a cup for her. It was the last in the pot so he went about making a second—measuring water, grinding beans—as a means to get her to talk.

"Yes," she replied. "He flew out an hour ago."

He took a sip from his own mug and smiled to himself; Jackie knew how to brew like a Marine.

"Leon is here?" Ziva ventured, putting her bag down at the end of the counter.

"Yup. Jackie brought some stuff for Sar."

"Oh." She shifted uncomfortably, trying to compose herself.

Gibbs wet a clean dishcloth and handed it to her. "Here. Clean yourself up before you go in there."

She nodded numbly and pressed the rag over her eyes. It helped, marginally; the stinging in her sinuses began to subside.

He watched her and loaded a tray with cream, sugar, coffees, and a bowl of roasted almonds, then poured whole milk into a sipper for his daughter. "Better?" he asked when she folded the towel and hung it on a drawer pull.

She still couldn't look at him and he'd have to ask later about why she was so damned ashamed of herself. "Yes," she lied. "Thank you."

Ziva followed him into the living room. "Hello," she greeted. "How are you this morning?" She didn't miss Director Vance's sharp gaze.

"We're fine," he answered for all of them. "DiNozzo got off the ground safely?"

"As far as I know," she replied politely. "I am sure he will get a SitRep as soon as he can."

Jackie shifted Sara in her arms when Gibbs handed her the sip cup. "Ziva? We know about your relationship with him and it's fine. There's no need for formalities; we're all friends here."

She schooled her face carefully, hiding both her embarrassment and relief. Why did she feel the need to be so secretive? Tony didn't. Furthermore, it didn't even matter; she was no longer an agent.

"Thank you," she said quietly. She couldn't look at Jackie, feeding Sara, cradling her like an infant. Jealousy beat its low bass drum in her chest.

Leon spoke carefully, eyeing both her and Gibbs. "I spoke to your father," he said. "I told him that you were welcome back at the agency at any time." She gazed back at him, unafraid. "I also said that you were a smart, sophisticated young woman with tremendous potential. The things you choose to pursue are only your business, not his."

She exhaled, chest collapsing. It took a long moment for her to gather herself and speak. "Thank you," she said again. "Though you did not have to vouch for me or…_protect_ me."

He gave her a steady look. "It was just the facts, Ziva."

Gibbs put his mug down on the coffee table with a hollow _thunk_. "Am I missing something here? Why the hell is Eli David sticking his nose in everyone's business?"

"He does not like that I quit NCIS," Ziva said bravely. "He thinks I should not pursue other paths."

"Why does he _care_? You're a grown woman. You can do whatever the hell you want."

"He likes control," she said simply. "He liked knowing I was still fighting for my country. Even the adopted one." Everyone's eyes wandered to Sara when she said _adopted_. Sara was drifting off to sleep, belly full of milk and cozy in her new dress.

"When I last spoke to him," she continued. "He wanted me to go to Yemen. He wanted me to investigate Seaman Almosolino's death. But when you told him I was not coming out of retirement, he asked you to send Tony instead." She shrugged, coffee gone cold.

Vance nodded once and stood. "We should go," he said gently. "Take care, everyone."

"Come by again," Gibbs said easily.

"We will," Jackie said quickly, and laid Sara in the beanbag chair. "I could hold her all day."

"I'm sure she'd love that," he agreed. "Thanks for everything."

She kissed his cheek. "You're so welcome. We don't live too far away, so be sure to call if you need something. Or just relief—I'm happy to watch her if you need to get out of the house. Kayla would love it, too. She loves little ones."

He smirked. "I'm sure you'll be first on Sara's list. See ya."

He closed the door behind him and turned to regard Ziva carefully. Sara slept on, thumb anchored in her pixie mouth.

"Do me a favor," he said softly, still standing in the foyer.

She looked back blankly. "What?"

"Get over it."

Puzzled, she furrowed her brow. "Get over _what_, Gibbs?"

"You've been miserable for weeks. Get over it."

She crossed her arms, wincing. The cold made her ache. "I do not know what you mean."

"You're here, Ziver. You're loved. You're safe. Why are you letting small things get to you?"

"Small things?" she begged, incredulous and angry. "My father continually calling to shame and humiliate me? Trying to take me away from all the things I am working so hard for?"

"_Tried_, Ziva. But _didn't_." He stepped closer and waited for her to lift her chin and look him in the eye. "He can't hurt you if you don't pick up the phone."

She'd gone quiet, feet planted on the area rug, and they engaged in a brief but powerful staring contest. Only Sara's squeak of discomfort broke them apart.

"Ow," she said quietly.

Gibbs knelt next to the beanbag. "What hurts, sweet pea?"

"Ow," she howled, drawing the word out.

"Tell me what hurts," he demanded gently. "Use your words."

She tossed her head and tried to reach behind her, writhing as best she could in her enormous cast. "Daddy _ow!_ Ow on my back!"

He flipped her like a gingerbread man and tore the dress off to check her over. Sure enough, there were two reddening pressure sores on the wings of her shoulder blades; the cast was rubbing when she moved her arms.

He positioned her over his knee to take the weight off the blisters. "Let's put some soft stuff where it rubs and then we'll do tummy time. That should make the pain go away. Ok, sweet pea?"

She turned her face against his jeans. "Make it stop, Daddy."

"I will, baby girl," he cooed, running his fingers through her tangles. "I need to get the moleskin. Can I pick you up?"

"No," she said tartly. "Ow, Daddy."

"Can Ziva hold you?"

She had to think about that one. "No," she said, still thinking. "Staying here."

Ziva found moleskin, rubbing alcohol, and strong tape in the minute it took her to decide and handed them all to Gibbs.

"Put alcohol on the red spots," she instructed. "It will toughen the skin so they do not come back. Then use the tape to hold the edges of the moleskin down—it does not stick well to fiberglass."

He dabbed at the sores with a damp cotton ball while she skillfully peeled the backing from the adhesive. "Speaking from experience, huh?"

She nodded. "Even with the edges padded, fiberglass scotching tape is very rough. I have gone through five boxes of moleskin in five weeks. And any heat takes it off. I rested my arm against Tony's coffee cup one morning and had to replace what was around my hand with fresh tape immediately. A waste of twenty minutes and ten dollars worth of supplies."

He smirked, but not because of her story; she was safe with DiNozzo. Safe enough to let him spend his mornings with her, drinking coffee and perusing the newspaper. "I don't need to know about your slumber parties," he groused.

She gaped, flushing red. "Gibbs, I…we…"

Sara sighed as he taped down the final edge. "Zeeba," she said softly. "You need sleeping here. Tony is away and…and…you be with us."

Her blushed deepened. "Thank you, Sara'leh. I will take you up on that invitation. But I will have to pick up Yaffa later. She cannot be alone."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I'm sure she'll be fine—"

"No," Ziva interrupted tightly. "She is mine and I refuse to let her go to sleep not knowing when I will return. I will get her before dinner."

"You shouldn't be driving," he complained, but she glared and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop her. He looked back at Sara, who was still draped across his leg, arms dangling. She was drifting off to sleep again, still exhausted from surgery. "Can I put you back in the beanbag?" he asked, worried her neck would get sore.

"No," she said slowly. "Wan'Zeeba."

Ziva moved onto the sofa and stacked a few pillows. "Put her here," she ordered gently. "I will sit with her while I do my work. You can go to your boat."

He lifted Sara onto the couch and smiled when she sighed and threw an arm over Ziva's leg.

"Zeeba?" she asked sleepily, eyes closed.

She wordlessly asked Gibbs to get her laptop and schoolbooks. "Hm?"

"It's ok. Tony will helping the boy."

"Yes," she said succinctly, winding one of Sara's curls around her finger. "Yes. Tony will help the boy."


	12. Hold On, Hold On

**I am so sorry it has been so long, but I got tripped up with "Treading Water" and then this story said, "Oh, I'm not going to tell you anything. You have to figure it out yourself," and darn that takes a long time. But I'm back. And I missed you. X and O.**

**. . . .**

****_The most tender place in my heart is for strangers._

_I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous._

_-Neko Case, "Hold On, Hold On."_

_. . . ._

Sara's big cast was ok sometimes and bad sometimes. It was bad because it itched inside and she couldn't scratch those itches, and it was also bad because she had to lie down almost flat all the time except when someone put her in her beanbag. She had to take a bath at the sink, like when she first came to Daddy and the metalparts were on the outside. Those metalparts were bad. She would rather have a big cast than metalparts.

But the big cast was ok because it didn't hurt much anymore, and when it did she would make a loud _aah!_ and Daddy would come with sweet red medicine and her bunny and sometimes the paci, too. The paci was nice and calm. She didn't care that it was for babies. Sometimes it was ok to be a baby. Being a baby made the hurt stop. Not the hurt from surgery—that was almost gone, anyway—but the hurt that lived in her head. The hurt from all the _stupid_ and _bad_ and _ugly_ people said. The hurt from being a foster kid in a closet. The hurt from the Wolcotts and Mr. Godwin and Mr. Shawn who put his hands in her pants. Those hurts might not ever go away, but maybe they would because she lived with Daddy and sometimes Ziva and Abby and Tony and Tim and Ducky the Doctor who was always gentle and kind, even when she had the tube that put food in her belly while she slept. That tube was gone, which was good. Milk with Daddy was better because snuggling was nice. So was _sssshhhh._

There was no more yelling. No more _stupid, _even when she couldn't use her words and had to point and go _ennnhh_ instead. Someone usually knew what she wanted—something to eat, her bunny, her paci, a blanket—but it didn't matter if they didn't know because she would get picked up and cuddled and then she didn't want anything anymore.

Sara was happy but Ziva was sad because Tony went away to help the boy even though the boy was dead because bad men shot him by the wall. Ziva wanted Tony to come home right away, but his trip got longer because there was no ever-dance for Abby to look at in her big basement. Abby was always dancing. Sara couldn't figure out why she needed more dancing from far away. Maybe she'd dance better if Tony just came home. Ziva would dance, probably. And give Tony a big hug and maybe a kiss. She didn't like to look at kissing. It was weird. Too many lips all mashed together. Kissing was for forehead and cheeks.

Was Daddy awake yet? Would he come in and kiss her and change her diaper? Sara hated her diaper but she had to wear it because she didn't know when she had to go anymore. Daddy said the surgery broke that. The surgery broke a lot of things. That's why she had such a big cast.

She always woke up extra-early. It was cold now and dark and she didn't like it, so she made a loud _aaaAAAH _and then Daddy came with his hair all up and his cheeks all droopy. She grinned, proud of herself, when he flipped on the small bedside lamp.

"Hi, Daddy," she stage-whispered.

He smiled. Sara loved when Daddy smiled. "Good morning, sweet pea. Do you need a change?"

She shrugged and she could feel the scrapes on her back again. She spent a whole day on her belly because the scrapes needed to go away and now they were back. Maybe she would just ignore the burny feeling.

Daddy changed her fast and put one of her big dresses on. They came from Jackie, who was nice and gave her milk and came back at dinner with more pacis, because hers got lost behind the bed when bunny had to go on the lamp. He picked her up when he was done and they went downstairs. Sara had a special chair so she could sit all the way up, but she didn't like it. Being up made her a little dizzy, like they were going too fast in her stroller. She was about to complain when Daddy came back with a bowl of eggs and fruit.

"Here, sweet pea," he said all soft.

Sara ate every bite because it was good and it didn't make the cast too tight on her belly. She ate too much soup one night and the big cast got so pinchy that she cried. Daddy felt bad; he thought it was his fault for putting too many carrots in her bowl.

"We have a big day today," he said when they went back upstairs. She wanted to go for a jog with Daddy because it was cozy to be in the stroller all bundled up. But they didn't jog now; the doctor said no because it was too bouncy for her big cast. Would it hurt to go for a jog, bumping down their street in the cold? Sara didn't want to find out.

"Ziva is getting her cast off today. We need to pick her up and take her to the doctor." Her put her in the beanbag in her room and gave her owl book and farmer book. "Stay here while I take a shower."

"Ok," she said, even though it was silly to say that because she couldn't go anywhere, whether Daddy was taking a shower or working in the basement on his big boat.

He came back fast and his hair wasn't up anymore. It was down and smooth and he had on a sweater and a jacket and boots. Then they left—but not without the green blanket—and went to Ziva's house, which was actually a small house _inside_ a big house where lots of people lived. They knocked on her inside-door. She answered and stepped back, all nervous-like.

Sara wanted to wiggle. She loved Ziva. Ziva was calm and kind and sweet. She was the best at reading stories and being quiet when the world was so big and going _thud thud thud_ with noise and voices and not enough light. She would put her hand on the front of Sara's cast and say, _Shaifeleh_, _you are all right. Your Daddy loves you very much_, which was true because she said so and Daddy said so and everyone said so.

"You ready?" Daddy asked Ziva. "Appointment's at nine."

"I know," she replied, but her voice was all short and low like she _did _know but she didn't want to leave. She put her jacket on anyway and smiled into Sara's face. Sara smiled, too, because that was nice.

"Good morning, my _shaifeleh_. Did you sleep well?"

"Why you didn't come home?" she asked. "Why you didn't sleep by my house with me an' Daddy?"

"I needed some quiet time," she responded vaguely.

It was a drizzly morning; Gibbs threw his coat over Sara to keep her cast dry as they trudged across the wet parking lot. He buckled her in, tucked the blanket around her, but paused before starting the engine. Ziva was pale and there were dark half-moons under each eye. She looked nearly as bad as she had when Jackie and Vance had visited, four days prior.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "I am fine."

They were on the freeway before Sara piped up. "Daddy? Zeeba is sad."

Ziva stiffened in the passenger seat, features gone flat. She said nothing, though, and continued to stare out the windshield.

"I think she's fine, sweet pea," he replied, braking down the exit ramp.

"No," she argued. "She is sad because she needed a hug and you didn't give it."

Gibbs parked and eyed Ziva carefully. Was her pallor and fatigue his fault? Had he done the wrong thing by being so tough on her? He put a hand on her good arm. "That true?"

She turned—barely—to give him a sly look. "Perhaps I have been a bit self-indulgent lately. I can understand why you were frustrated with me."

She went to the trunk to unload the jogger, but he waved her off and hefted Sara into his arms. "I got no right to tell you how to feel," he said sincerely.

They stood on the cold macadam for several moments, a standoff built on resignation and small apologies. Ziva finally graced him with a tiny smile-the first one he'd seen since DiNozzo got on that airplane.

"I am going to therapy today," she announced firmly. "And I will drive myself."

"And then you'll come over for dinner," he augmented.

"Yeah, dinner," Sara parroted, and all three of them laughed in relief.

The cast technician fixed all them with a blank stare and consulted the chart in his hands. "It is me," Ziva said kindly. "Dr. Keppler was my orthopedist."

He nodded and spent only a few minutes checking over her cast for soft spots and making marks that indicated where he'd make the cuts. He offered noise-cancelling earmuffs to Gibbs and nodded, indicating that they were for Sara.

"The noise is a lot for her," he explained. He was a gentle man, soft and smiling. "Put those on and she will not be afraid."

Gibbs put the earmuffs on his daughter and they all laughed aloud; they dwarfed her little head and she blinked, surprised, when the sound cut out.

"What?" she said loudly, offended by their laughter. She sniffed and put her head down on her father's shoulder.

Ziva didn't wince when the tech rotated her arm. "Now I know why Tony calls her a bug."

The stryker saw _was _noisy, but only two cuts were necessary and then the tech popped the cast in his hands like a can of ready-to-bake biscuits. Ziva's arm emerged scaly, thin, and crisscrossed with surgical scars. He helped her sponge off the dead skin.

Sara gasped aloud, eyebrows rising. She pulled off the earmuffs and dropped them to the table. "Zeeba! Your arm is still all bad!"

"She still has a lot of healing to do," Gibbs said gently, but she shook her head.

"I don't liking it. I don't liking your arm all bad." She turned on the technician, who was reading over the doctor's notes for a post-cast splint. "Put it back," she demanded. "You need to put it back. See how it's all bad? That means you need to put it back and let it be more better."

Ziva slid back up on the table and extended her elbow for the first time in months. It was stiff and sore, but not terribly painful. _"Shaifeleh_," she said calmly. "It is just some dead skin and scars. It will get better. Want to see?" She held her arm out.

Sara recoiled with a look of disgust. "No, Zeeba! No! Put it back!"

Gibbs patted her head and turned so she faced away. "That's enough," he said in her ear. "Ziva is fine. She's going to get a splint and some x-rays and then we'll go home." He offered the pacifier and she took it with a scowl, hiding her face in his lapel.

Ziva's arm _was_ fine despite the scarring and atrophy. Imaging revealed that the bones were knitting perfectly and a brief visit with a physical therapist gave her some techniques to strengthen the muscles and work out the stiffness. She wouldn't even need a series of PT sessions to regain full use of her arm.

Sara remained agitated, however, and refused to let Ziva hold her until it was close enough to naptime that she was too tired to protest. They cuddled for a long few minutes while she took her milk, then Gibbs carted her up the stairs for a quick change before putting her down. He returned as Ziva was opening her school module. Only four lessons remained before she took the exam that would grant her a certificate and open the doors to higher education.

"How's it going?" Gibbs asked, lowering himself into a seat next to hers. The dining room was dim, as though the sun hadn't bothered to come out at all.

"Fine," she said with the ghost of a smile. "I have received high marks so far. Even in the subjects I'd never studied before."

He made a pot of coffee and came back with a cup for each of them. "How's DiNozzo?"

Ziva darkened. "He is fine," she responded blandly. "They have run into some issues with a small faction of Ansar Al-Shariah. Tony said they've been calling them New Taliban because of some fundamentalist papers posted posted around Sana'a and the surrounding mountain villages. Ansar leaders are taking responsibility for them." She glanced up at him from beneath long lashes. "A…friend of mine in Israel said they are concerned about the growth of terrorism following last year's protests. The unrest can be a breeding ground for…that sort of thing."

Gibbs swallowed and nodded behind his mug, thinking of Pakistani refugee camps following the fall of Afghanistan to the Soviets. The Taliban's mullahs had free agency to spread their zealots' teachings and religious extremism. He hoped they didn't see the same thing in Yemen.

"How long 'til they're home?" he asked.

"Another week." She studied her laptop screen with a furrowed brow.

"Heard from your father?"

Ziva dropped her eyes to the tabletop. "Yesterday. He sent me a plane ticket to Sana'a. I sent it back."

He gut churned and he said up straight. "I don't want you alone until DiNozzo and McGee get back here." She opened her mouth to protest but he glared, hard. "I'll send Dornegut to get your cat. You go no where without me until the Almosolino case is closed."

"Yes, Gibbs," she conceded softly.

He kissed her brow. "You're ok, otherwise?"

He meant her moods and her meds. She nodded again but would not look up. "I have never felt like this," she admitted. "I have never…how do you mourn for something you never realized you missed? Do you understand? Am I explaining…"

He bobbed his head. "After Shannon and Kelly...after Hernandez…I came home hating every family I saw. More if they had a little girl."

She swallowed thickly. "It is not fair to be jealous of Sara, Gibbs. It is not fair to covet the life of a child who has known very little but pain and suffering."

He kissed her hair, combed for the first time in days. "Stop rationalizing," he whispered. "Sara gets a lot of love, Ziver. If you never got enough…"

"She deserves it," she countered.

"And you don't?"

Her jaw snapped shut hard enough to rattle her teeth. She glared, nostrils flaring. "I am not a child," she ground out.

"You were," he replied lightly. "And you deserved to be loved the exact same way Sara is. It's a shame you never received it." He bent and kissed her head again. "I'll be downstairs."

She rose and followed, tiptoeing across the floor as though he'd change his mind and order her back to the table. He didn't, and threw her a sanding block when she didn't immediately reopen the laptop she'd carted down under her good arm.

"Here. With the grain."

The rudder has been lathed and sanded. Gibbs opened a can of polyurethane and began the first coat, letting the excess drip onto the old newspaper he'd spread on the workbench. Ziva sanded the gunwale, preparing for the installation of a vinyl rub-rail.

"Why did you take Sara?" she blurted. She did not stop sanding; the rasp of the paper over the wood was comforting.

Gibbs stopped staining and laid the brush across the top of the can. He stared for a long time at the rudder, at the brushstrokes disappearing as the polyurethane began to dry. "Because she needed me," he said finally, wiping his hands on a rag.

She was not satisfied. "Yes, I understand that, but she is not just a child who needs you. You love her, Gibbs. You are _in_ love with her."

The mere mention of Sara brought a small smile to his face. "I am. I didn't expect it, Ziver. I didn't expect to love anyone after my family was killed." He paused and held his arms out in a gesture of disbelief. "But I do."

She leveled him with a hard look, one he wouldn't have found surprising five years ago, when she'd been so rough. So _green_. Had anything changed? Was the world still so black and white to her? Good and evil. Wrong and right.

"Do you need her?"

"Yeah," he replied easily.

Ziva began to sand again, switching the block from her left hand to her right.. "Do all parents need their children?"

There was a question under her question: _Did my parents need me? _and he had no idea how to answer it. He flipped the rudder and began to stain the other side. The wisp of the brush did little to soothe his rolling gut.

"I don't know what to tell ya, Ziver. My daughter's death killed a part of me." He put the paintbrush aside, feeling drained. He wanted to tell her that Sara most likely saved him from himself—from his exile, from his drinking, from his loneliness—but saying it out loud made it real. Neither of them were ready for that.

Ziva swayed under the single fluorescent bulb like a puppet forgotten on its strings. The sander dangled from her ruined hand. Her head hung just over her right shoulder. Gibbs was positive that if he touched her she'd crumble at his feet.

He waited until she looked up. "What's up?"

She shook her head vacantly. "I have never been one to ask _why_, Gibbs. I have never looked back on my life and wished it could be different. But then…_Sara..._and now I cannot...I am _having trouble_ finding value in all the things I have done."

He crossed his arms. "There's value in defending your country, Ziva."

She pinned him with an indescribable glare, eyes black and burning under the shadow of her hair. "There is no value in soullessness, Gibbs. There is no value in extinguishing a life."

. . . .

For once Ziva did not tiptoe into her therapist's office. Rather she marched in, eyes blazing, wearing her all-weather jacket—because the rain persisted, despite the freezing temperatures—and a new scarf the color of leaves. She left the scarf in place and sat down, hands on her knees.

"I am tired of feeling like this," she said directly. "I am tired of questioning everything I have ever done."

Dr. Loeb arched one manicured eyebrow. "Then stop. What's your trouble today? You're not usually so energetic."

"I am not energetic," she complained childishly. "I am just…I am sick of feeling like I am useless. Like I have spent thirty years doing _nothing_ of significance. Why do I feel this way?"

She shrugged. "You tell me."

Ziva looked up, fury written on her face like graffiti. "I killed people!" she spat. "I took lives. I erased actual humans from the face of this earth and I did it so casually you would've thought I was a machine. A _killing _machine."

The eyebrow went higher. "Why did you do that?"

"Because…because I had orders. I was trained to do as I was told and then I did it." She drooped a bit and a few curls escaped the knot she'd wound them in that morning. "But why did I not see that killing was wrong? Why did I carry on? Was I no better than the Nazis that sent my grandparents and great-uncles to the ovens?"

"Is anyone better than anyone else, Ziva?"

She shook her head bitterly. "No."

"You were told those people were enemies of the state of Israel. Enemies of Jews—_they_ wanted to kill _you_, so you had to kill them first. Am I wrong?"

"No."

"Who taught you those things, Ziva?"

Her chin bobbed. "My father."

"And who sent you on those missions?"

"My father."

"Would you ever speak out against him?"

"No."

"Would you ever question his motives? His actions?"

Ziva went silent. Her fingers knotted themselves between her knees. "Once," she admitted slowly. "Once I did. But I was young. I did not understand the…consequences."

Dr. Loeb waited for her, but she'd withdrawn, eyes darting into the corners of her small office. "Tell me about that, please."

She swallowed and closed her eyes. "I was never a very social child. I did not have many friends. But once day…I must have been about six…I was invited to a birthday party by a little girl who lived in our apartment building. She must have been in my class, but I do not remember." She paused to swallow and a tiny smile appeared on her face. "And my mother said I could go. I was very excited—I had never been to a birthday party—so she took me to buy a gift and a new swimsuit because the party would be held at the pool behind our building."

The doctor cocked her head and encouraged her to go on.

"I was very nervous when I arrived. Most of the other children were already in the water and they were playing a game that I did not know. So I just sat on the edge for a while, watching, until the birthday girl—Ma'ayan! Her name was Ma'ayan!—came over and invited me to play a different game. A game I knew. It was…a chasing thing, perhaps?" One shoulder came up and she shook her head. "But I do not remember. And I played and it was quite fun. But a few minutes later my father was standing over me, telling me that it was time to leave." She shook her head again, lashes wet with tears. "I did not want to go. I was enjoying myself very much. But he made me get out of the pool. I had to say thank you to the host and thank you to her mother and…and I could feel all the children staring at me, wondering why I had to leave when the party had barely begun. I was humiliated. Then I had to walk up all the stairs to our apartment by myself. I was still in my wet bathing suit and it was very cold inside with the air conditioner running. My father took the elevator and waited for me outside our apartment." She swallowed hard and shook her head, cheeks pink with humiliation. "I felt awful," she admitted heavily. "I was embarrassed and upset and…I do not know what came over me, but I asked my father outright why he made me leave."

Dr. Loeb leaned forward and tented her hands. "Did he answer you, Ziva?"

She nodded, eyes on the floor.

"What did he say?"

"He said it was foolishness. A waste of precious time."

"How did you feel?"

One tear fell. "Stupid. Stupid for wanting to attend a child's party when my country was at war. But…but I was confused, too, because all those children were also Israeli. _They_ lived in a country at war, too. Why did everyone else get to attend the party and I did not?"

"What were the consequences for asking those questions?"

Her head dropped further; her creased chin rested almost on her chest. "My father took me to his study, removed his belt, and struck me six times with it."

Dr. Loeb inhaled—the whistle of a far-away train. "Ziva," she said quietly. "That is abuse."

She nodded miserably. "I know."

The therapist leaned forward and extended her hands, then let them dangle at the wrist. "He did not make you leave that party because your country was fighting with her neighbors."

She blinked. More tears fell, but she had yet to break down. Her voice was tiny when she spoke again. "He wanted to hurt me."

"And did you do anything to deserve that?"

Ziva blinked. "I just wanted…"

"Did you deserve it? Did you—a child—deserve to have your father—a grown man—embarrass you in front of your peers and then strike you with his belt six times?"

Her chin dimpled and she sniffled, but she looked up for the first time since beginning her story. "No," she said clearly. "No. I did not deserve it."

. . . .

Ziva barreled in Gibbs' front door with Yaffa's crate under one arm and a stack of books under the other. She threw down her stuff, let the cat out, and stomped into the kitchen so hard that Gibbs thought Abby had come in.

"It was not my fault," she declared.

He offered Sara another bite of buttered pasta. She declined. "What's not your fault?"

"None of it. Not my father's anger, not my mother's silence, not the fact that my country is persistently under attack. None of that is my fault."

"I know," he said mildly.

"You do _not!_" she criticized, stomping one sneaker on his old linoleum. "You do _not _know what it is like to carry around that guilt. You do not under—"

He turned on her and offered a knowing look. "I don't huh?"

She fell silent, indignation seeping from her like cold through the windows. "I am sorry," she said slowly.

He shrugged and lifted Sara onto the counter to begin her evening bath. "It's fine, Ziver. What's got the fire under you ass?" Sara clucked offended by his word choice, but he blew a raspberry on her neck and began to wash her hair.

Ziva put one hand on Sara's cast and the other on her bare toes. They were pink and warm. "I have carried these feelings for too long. I will not do it any longer."

He kissed the crown of her head and smeared bubbles on her cheek. "Good. You talk to DiNozzo today?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What is going on?"

Gibbs rinsed Sara one last time and wrapped a towel around her shoulders before heaving her into his arms. She was so heavy in her cast. He was ready to be done with it but she still had months to go. "I got a SitRep from Leon; they made their collar but the whole Ansar faction was carrying weapons."

Ziva rolled her eyes and squeezed some water from Sara's hair. "They all carry weapons, Gibbs."

"Israeli weapons. Galil SARs, Jericho 941s, IMIs…"

She shook her head, mouth a firm line. "That is impossible. Yemen has no diplomatic ties to Israel. They must be stolen arms, Gibbs. That must be why my father sent…"

"They may as well have his name tag on them, Ziver. Why is he arming Yemenite rebels?"

She swayed, arms crossed and a small light began to burn somewhere behind her coal-black eyes. "He wants a coup. It's his Magic Carpet."

"What?"

"He wants Israel to be the hero again. He wants to rescue Yemen from itself."

He carried Sara up to bed and wrestled her into a pajama top and clean diaper. Ziva waited in the doorway until he sat in the rocking chair with a sigh and propped his daughter against his chest, then handed over a few picture books.

Gibbs made a face. "She won't make it tonight. Too tired. Huh, sleepy little bird?" She hummed. He gave her a pacifier and her rabbit. "Go call DiNozzo," he said softly. "SatPhone's number is on the sideboard."

She nodded and padded down the stairs, where she dialed quickly and blew out a hard breath when Tony answered.

"Hey, Zee-vah. How's tricks, state-side?"

"My father is arming Yemenite rebels? Ansar al-Shariah?"

He backpedaled. "It's not like that, Zi. Israel donated weapons to a few groups because they legitimately felt they were under attack by their own government. It's mostly peaceful now and we're working on keeping it that way."

She grew angry at his defense of Eli. "Are the weapons Israeli, Tony? Did they come from my father?"

"They ARE, but they're not going to be used against US soldiers. That was a mistake, Zee-vah. We have the people in custody who were responsible for killing Almosolino. We got this, sweet cheeks, ok?"

Her hands were cold. Goosebumps rose on her arms. "It is not a mistake that they dragged an American seventy miles to shoot him in front of a greengrocer. It is not a _mistake_ that those weapons came from IDF. It is not a _mistake_ that he stole you away from me only weeks after we got engaged! _Again_ he is using the people I love to further his own agenda and I am _sick of it!_"

Tony spoke lowly, slowly, trying to calm her down. "Don't be afraid. Things are panning out. I'm coming home next Friday, Zi. We can plan the wedding, play with the Buglet, watch basketball…whatever.'

She swallowed and steadied herself. "Those are all things _you_ want to do," she complained gently.

He made a noise in his teeth. "Well yeah, Zi. You think this is any fun? Hell no. I want to do a cake tasting while the Buckeyes crush UNC. You up for that?"

She snorted tearfully but smiled anyway. "Yes, I am. Come home safe, Tony. Please."

"No doubt," he replied confidently. "I love you."

She sniffed, willing the tears to end. "I love you, too."

He hung up with a beep and she stood for a long time with the phone in her hand, dial tone humming in the leaping, growing dark.


	13. Rise To Me

**Thank you as always. And watch out below: general badness. May *T.* Take care of yourselves Take care of each other. Big love, the Mecha.**

**. . . .**

_They sing out, 'I am going to stand my ground._

_You rise to me and I'll blow you down.'_

_-The Decemberists, "Rise To Me."_

Tony let himself in to Gibbs' house and was greeted by the barrel of a Sig 1911. He jumped, car keys clattering to the stone flag entry tiles, and put his hands up.

"Boss," he whispered harshly. "It's me. For cryin' out loud."

Gibbs lowered the weapon and clicked on the safety. "You creepin' up on a Marine, DiNozzo?"

"I'm _trying _not to wake the whole damn household. It _is_ oh-two-thirty."

He pointed into the dark living room. There wasn't a single light on. Only Sara's electric-yellow beanbag chair was visible, and only because of its brilliant color. "Couch is there. Hit the rack."

Tony reached for his keys. "Let me just say hi to Ziva real fast."

Gibbs was already halfway up the stairs. "Fine," he huffed. "Wake my kid and I'll bust your six."

He grinned and tread carefully up the steps to find Ziva awake and sitting up among the heavy blankets. "Hi," he said softly.

The smile on her face lit up the room. "Hello," she whispered. She threw herself against him and pulled his face down to hers. "I am so happy you are home."

He could muster no response other than to kiss her gently and rest his head against hers.

She drew him down to the mattress. "Stay here," she commanded softly.

He balked. "Gibbs won't—"

"Shut up." Her words weren't unkind.

Tony pulled off his boots and lay down beside her, sighing when she yielded against his chest. "That's nice," he murmured.

She hummed, almost asleep. "Tomorrow we shall go home."

He pulled the blankets up and hoped he didn't smell too much like an airport. "But I wanted to play with the Bug," he whined.

"I do not want to share," she crabbed. "Play with Sara when you haven't been gone for two weeks."

"How long until that happens?"

Ziva opened one eye and rolled it toward his face. "After you ravish me in my own bed," she said, and slept.

. . . .

Outside Ziva's small condominium was iron-cold and wet, but inside was lamplight and food and the warm hum of shared hours. She fed Tony endlessly for the weekend—minute steaks and potatoes, a roasted chicken, breakfasts of eggs and pastries—between lovemaking sessions that lasted entire televised basketball games. The long, bright days in Sana'a had depleted him and she was filling him back up, meal by meal, pleasure by pleasure. She laughed against his throat, left love bites on his shoulders, and offered spoonful after spoonful of sauces. _More salt? More paprika? Is it overdone? _He said no and no and no, warm and content and absolutely besotted.

Ziva rose with him on Monday morning and made coffee while he showered and dressed. She pushed a plate of Turkish _nokul_—a roll of flaky dough and sweetened pistachios—in front of him when he emerged from the bedroom, but shook her head when he grabbed his car keys.

"I do not want you to go," she admitted slowly.

He threw his keys back down. "So I won't. I'll work from here. Is my laptop still on your little desk?"

"Yes," she said, quietly proud. "Write your report while I finish a lesson and schedule my exam. I would like to do some wedding planning this afternoon."

He stepped out of his loafers and a wide smile spread across his face. "That sounds awesome. Cake tasting?"

She shook her head, eyes alight. "We will have to find a baker and schedule it in advance. But if you'd like a cake I am happy to bake one for you."

Tony rubbed his stomach. "No. Enough. You've made more food this weekend than you have since you broke your arm."

She sat down and pulled out her own laptop. "So we will have _she'yarim_ for dinner."

He munched a piece of _nokul_. "What?"

"_She'yarim_. From the refrigerator…the food I made…"

"Leftovers," he supplied. "Let's invite Gibbs and Sara, too. I miss that Bug. I haven't seen her in weeks."

"You saw her Friday night."

"I saw her _asleep_ at two-thirty in the morning. I didn't actually get to _see-_see her."

"You saw her, Tony. She just happened to be unconscious."

"And if she hadn't been Gibbs would've had my hide. Hey—you will wanna get married in his backyard?"

"Yes," she replied resolutely. "In May. Or June. Whenever the nights are warm. We will get married properly under the _kochavim_."

"Stars," he translated. "_Kochavim_ are stars. And that sounds beautiful. Should we hang up some twinkle lights on the chuppah?"

"Yes. Tiny lights and Sara can wear a beautiful dress."

"And _you_ will wear a beautiful dress."

Ziva smirked and made eyes at him. "That _you_ will take off after the party." Tony laughed. She opened her mouth to continue flirting but her phone rang. She answered it with a smile lingering on her face.

"Ziva," Eli snapped across the wire. He inhaled, dragging on a cigarette. "Do you know what you have done?"

"Papa?" she asked, slightly stricken. "I have asked you not to call me again."

"_Do you know what you have done?"_ he asked again, voice rising in anger. "Do you have any idea what your little return-postage exploit has cost me and my agency? _Two_ operatives are dead, Ziva. _Two_. And do you know why? Because you pulled a perfectly childish stunt by returning the airline ticket I sent you. Did you not understand, Ziva? Did you not understand that I summoned you for a very real and serious reason?" He took another puff on his cigarette. "Well," he continued. "Your insubordinance cost two of your comrades their lives."

"I do not work for you," she replied.

Eli nearly exploded with rage. "You _idiot_!" he burst. "You worthless, dithering _zona_! Sleeping with your colleagues and caring for your supervisor's wretched _mamzer_ rather than protecting your country? You _shame_ me, Ziva! You make me wish it had been _you_ blown to bits in that café rather than you sister."

Ziva gaped, breath stolen by her father's tirade.

Tony put his hand over the one that held the mobile. "Hang up," he said softly. "Hang up, Zi. Don't let him abuse you like that. Hang up the phone."

She shook her head. "That is not my fault, Papa," she said levelly. "I do not work for you. I do not work for NCIS. I am a civilian and an adult. Please do not call me again. Goodbye." She disconnected with a _beep_ as her father's diatribe could still be heard on the other end.

They sat back in silence for a moment, breathing heavily, until Tony sat up and faced her. "You ok?"

"Yes," she said coolly. "I am fine. He has no business calling me like that. He has no business calling anyone like that, but he has always taken liberties with me. He has always overstepped the boundaries I tried to enforce."

"I think that should end now. It's time for you to get new phone numbers."

"I concur," she said lightly, color returning to her cheeks.

"You sure you're ok?" he asked, brows furrowing in concern. "I don't know if I'd be all right after a ear-beating like that."

"I am ok, Tony. I am shaken and angry, but I am not broken." She took a shuddery breath and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He threaded an arm behind her quivering shoulders. "Can I hold you?"

"Yes," she croaked, throat closing with emotion. "But only for a moment. I would like to go purchase a new cell phone."

"When you're ready, Zi," he mumbled against her ear. "But I've got you, ok?"

"Ok," she sniffed, and curled deeper into his side.

. . . .

Sara crowed happily from the beanbag chair and wiggled her toes when Tony came through the front door. She'd been pining for him since she'd been told he was home, begging Gibbs to call and invite him over to play with her.

"Buglet!" he cried, grinning. "Am I happy to see you! It's been _forever_—what did you do while I was gone? Climb a mountain? Take up curling?"

She giggled and grabbed fistfuls of his hair when he bent to kiss her. "I missed you!" she announced. "I missed you a lot and Zeeba missed you a lot and Daddy miss you a lot. We didn't eat meat and soup together the whole time you went away."

He picked her up and carried her into the dining room, where Ziva was helping Gibbs program her new number into his phone.

"Whazzat?" Sara puzzled, pointing.

"Ziva's new phone. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah," she agreed vaguely, not really caring.

He swiped it from Ziva, who scowled. "Watch, Bug." He used the integrated camera to snap a photo of the two of them, cheeks pressed together, and laughed at the quizzical face she was making in the picture.

She giggled and reached for Ziva. "With Zeeba, Tony."

He pulled her into the frame and snapped another photo, this time with all three of them smiling goofily into the lens. Sara's curls had been caught in the watery morning light; it haloed all three of them in wild darkness.

Gibbs smoothed it back and offered her a syringe of red suspension liquid. "Here," he said unnecessarily. She took it without comment. He tapped her chin. "You have to stay with Ziva this morning. Leon called me in to talk with him. I'll be back in two hours."

Sara nodded solemnly. "Is two hours long?"

"Two hours is four _Nora_'s," he explained, referring to a cartoon she liked. "But you cannot watch four in a row. Two, and that's it. And no tantrums."

Tony spun her around to face him. "You been throwing fits, Bug?"

She nodded candidly. "Yeah."

He frowned comically. "Not using your words, huh?"

She looked away. "Dunno how."

He kissed her cheek. "Well try, kiddo. You don't have to get it every time, but as long as you try, it's ok."

"Ok," she said lightly, though she hadn't met his gaze. "Zeeba?"

Tony handed Sara over and Ziva cuddled close. "My little _shaifeleh_. So tiny and so noisy."

Gibbs shifted into his sport coat. "She has a low fever but the acetaminophen should knock it down. Diaper change in an hour. Dresses are in the closet—the purple one is her favorite."

Tony grinned. "Boss, I think Ziva's done this once or twice before."

He smirked and tickled Sara's bare feet. "Two hours. I love you." He kissed Sara's cheek, then Ziva's.

Tony pouted. "Where's mine, Boss?"

"Get in the car, DiNozzo," he growled, and gave him genial shove toward the door.

. . . .

Leon looked up from a slim file when Gibbs walked into his office and closed the door. Dressed in his usual attire of a sport coat, polo, and boots, he could've been coming up from the bullpen rather than home with his cranky, slightly feverish little girl.

"We have a problem," he said without preamble.

Gibbs crossed his arms. "Figured as much if you're calling me in."

Leon unwrapped a new toothpick. "Forty-eight hours ago, Director of Mossad Benjamin Parlo relieved Deputy Director David of his position with the organization. All but one of his alternative passports have been recovered and destroyed."

Gibbs rocked on his heels. "You think he's on his way here?"

"Parlo reported David was angry and behaving destructively. Tossed his office."

His gut boiled. "We know which passport he took?"

Vance tented his fingers and raised his chin. "He had several dozen, most of them not even officially issued by Mossad. There's no way of knowing."

"So we got a pissed-off ex-spy in the wind and no tail on him? Who the hell is in charge over there? And why the hell are they doing such sloppy work?"

"We don't know he's on his way here, Jethro—"

"Bullshit, Leon. You didn't call me in here because he's going to sauté a bunch of Al Qaeda infantrymen. You'd better find his ass before I do."

He said up straight, overstuffed leather chair squeaking on its springs. "Is that a threat, Gibbs?"

He calmed himself and ignored his tossing stomach. He leveled Vance with a hard glare and stood at attention. "That's a promise," he swore, and stalked out without closing the door.

He stormed down the stairs to the bullpen. Tim was gathering his things, obviously headed down to Abby's lab. "We're pulling all the visual from Dulles and Reagan right now," he said. "They gave us all their security footage. Abby's swamped—I'm headed down to help her run tape. Tony's already got a crew assembled and they're headed now to the airports. BOLO's out to all local PD."

Gibbs whirled on him. "How the hell does a six-foot-four Mossad officer waltz onto a commercial airplane and no one notices him?" he thundered.

Tim paled and swallowed. "Uh, I think the key phrase was _Mossad officer_, Boss. I'll be in the lab." He scurried off, head ducked.

Tony flopped down at his desk. "Ziva isn't answering her phone," he steamed, red-faced. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar with stiff, jerky motions. "Makes me nervous, Boss. My gut's all grumbly."

Gibbs took a breath. "That's because you ate a chili dog for breakfast, DiNozzo. Sara isn't feeling well. I think she's got her hands full." He had, too, when before Ziva and Tony arrived. Sara woke with a low fever and a serious case of the tantrums. She's pitched a particularly furious one over the contents of her breakfast plate, another over the loss of a favorite pacifier, and a third about nothing in particular.

A smile ghosted across Tony's face. "Well maybe you ought to get home and un-full them. If her father's on his way here…"

"Then we'll catch him," Gibbs filled in, and fixed Tony with a hard look.

"On it, Boss," he said firmly, and turned back to his computer monitor.

An hour leeched by while Tim and Abby scoured surveillance footage and Tony pored over airline passenger lists. The phones rang and rang with false sightings. Local LEOs pounded pavement, calling in by radio every few minutes. Gibbs stewed and paced until he threw away another empty coffee cup and grunted in irritation.

Tony peered at him, phone receiver pressed to his ear. "You know, Boss, maybe David isn't coming here. Maybe he's off going beserker-badass on some enemy of Israel. Maybe he's in Sana'a shooting up Ansar Al-Shariah's hidey-holes."

"Yeah, DiNozzo, and maybe we'll find him in some whore's Paris rat hole and his pants around his ankles. It's not about where he _is_. It's about making sure he isn't _here."_ He jabbed the elevator call button and checked his holster.

"Where ya going?" Tony called over the din.

"Home," he snarled. "Home to my kid."

. . . .

Sara threw her head back, fists full of Ziva's sweater, and gave a long, loud howl. "I don't want to going to bed," she wailed. "M'not tired!"

Ziva tucked her and stroked away her sweaty curls. She was still slightly feverish despite the dose of children's acetaminophen and a lukewarm sponge bath. "You feel asleep two times while you were eating lunch. That means that you _are_ tired and tired girls go to bed. If you can stop crying then I will read. If you cannot, then I will give you a kiss and let you sleep."

She let loose with another howl. "No! I want up! I want up with you!"

Ziva relented, tired of listening to screams. "Fine. Should we rock for a while? I will sit and hold you, but you must stop your fussing at once."

The tantrum stopped immediately. "Ok," she agreed, sniffling. She held her arms up and Ziva hauled her out of bed. They settled together in the rocker and heaved matching sighs.

"That is better, _shaifeleh_," Ziva murmured. "I am sorry you feel poorly. Maybe we should call your Daddy to come home."

Sara tensed. "No, Zeeba. You."

"Are you in pain?"

"A tiny bit."

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah."

Ziva clucked and smoothed her hair again. She was warm, but not terribly hot. "How do we make it better? Do you need some pain medicine?"

Sara put both hands out in a comical, conversational gesture. "Getting ice cream," she said innocently. "I want a chocolate one with orange. You can push the stroller and Daddy will have a coffee."

"Your Daddy does love his coffee. Maybe we will get ice cream later, but only if it is not raining," Ziva offered.

"Yeah," Sara said again, but softly. She was drifting, having finally exhausted herself after two long tantrums. Nothing would make her happy that morning-not television, not games, not even taking photos with Ziva's phone.

Ziva was as tired as her charge. She yawned and rested her head atop Sara's, relieved she had finally stopped crying. "My _shaifeleh_," she cooed, and rocked until Sara's pixie mouth went loose around her thumb.

Her arm twinged when she lowered her back into bed. Sara awoke slightly and raised one hand to brush her fingers across the left side of Ziva's face. She gave an indiscernible look, one of curiosity and concern, but then the expression faded and she smiled, loopy with sleep. "Zeeba," she sighed.

"My _shaifeleh_," she said again, and dropped a lingering kiss on her brow. Sara didn't move again, so she stepped out and paused, listening, hoping she was asleep so Ziva could make a cup of tea and study in peace for a few hours.

A hot wind and a grunt sent her back against the wall. The edge of the doorframe dug hard between her shoulders. Darkness swept her vision. Pain blossomed somewhere between her left eye and ear. Eli David's gold watch caught the low winter sun and sparkled.

"Get up," he ordered roughly. "_Kum_." He nudged her with his shoe. "_Yallah_, Ziva!"

Her head swam. Two drops of blood fell on the carpet over the squeaky floorboard. She stood, wavering, and met his eyes with the only one of hers that would open.

"You want to defy to me?" he snarled. "You want to disobey your father? Do it now, Ziva. Do it while I stand in front of you."

She bobbed, face throbbing. "Papa, no," she mumbled.

His fist lanced her cheek again and two teeth rattled loose. She hoped they weren't her newish implants. Or maybe that was better—the crowns might be easier to replace than her molars.

"_Fight_," he ordered. "_Nil'cham_, Ziva! I am here and where are _you_, brave warrior? Too busy caring for the _mamzer_? To busy fucking Agent DiNozzo? _Nil'cham_, Ziva!"

He double-tapped her in the ribs and the air left her lungs. She went to her knees and cradled her middle. Eli dragged her to her feet. "_Nil'cham!" _he ordered again, voice high and screeching. He punched her in the throat. She gagged and doubled over. "_Nil'cham! Nil'cham! I order you, Ziva. Fight!"_

He hit her in the temple and she crashed against the doorframe for a second time. "_Kum! _Get up!" he shouted. "Get up and fight, you _n'musha._ You worthless, sniveling cur. Get up and fight before you shame me yet again!"

He pulled her up, but Ziva's knees buckled and she slumped to the carpet, semi-conscious, nausea bubbling in her throat. "No," she repeated. "No, Papa."

Eli locked his hand around her neck and shoved her against the wall, letting her dangle from his grasp. Her heels scraped the sheetrock behind her.

"You are weak," he growled. "You are pathetic. _Aluva._ Nothing. You shame me. You shame your family. You shame your country. You are an embarrassment to everything we stand for."

"No, Papa," she grunted, struggling for air. Blood dripped to the carpet again. From where, she couldn't be sure.

Eli pulled back and shoved her again against the wall, grinning a little when the back of her head bounced hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. "Defiant whelp. Useless cur. Where is your _gevurah_, warrior? Where is your _chutzpah_? You cannot hit me? You cannot defend your honor? You cannot obey _a direct order_? _Zona!_" He let go. She slumped, dazed, half-conscious. He backhanded her. Ziva crumpled, gasping.

"No, Papa," she rasped, struggling to her feet. "I will not—"

He cut her off with another resounding blow. She toppled, landing against the banister. It shook, and somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind she worried it would break.

Eli paused as the high, keening sound from Sara's room rose in pitch and fervor. He landed two sharp kicks to Ziva's belly and sneered. "Get up," he commanded.

The earth spun crazily and she hesitated, willing herself not to vomit. He kicked her again. "Get _up_. I order you to get up and walk out of here. You need to fix your terrible mistake. _Kum, Ziva_!" He kicked her a third time. She got to her feet, pausing on her knees to vomit bile and blood onto the carpet. She'd have to pay for it to be replaced.

Her father pointed down the stairs. "Now you will walk out of this house or I will kill that vile, screaming bastard. Do you understand me, Ziva? You come with me or I will bash in that mongrel's skull with my bare hands."

She nodded her swollen, battered head.

"_Answer me_," he hissed.

"Yes, Papa," she ground out.

Sara's screams followed them down the stairs and out the back door. Eli dragged her across the neighbors' empty back yards and into a late-model SUV. The cries continued even as he shoved her in the backseat and turned the key. _Good_. Ziva thought. Screaming was good. Let someone hear. Let Gibbs come running to gather his baby in his arms. Let him comfort her. Let him hold her up to kiss the mezuzah before sleeping. Let him hold back the darkness on her worst nights. Let him say, _Ziva loved you, sweet pea. She loved you so, so much_. Ziva swallowed blood and mucus, head spinning, face a mushy, pulsing melon. Let Sara and Tony light a candle for her, she mused. Let her memory be for a blessing.


	14. When the War Came

**I am thanking you for your reviews with THIS. xoxo, the Mecha.**

**. . . . **_  
_

_ A terrible autonomy has grafted onto you and me_

_ Our trust put in the government; they sold their lies as heaven-sent._

_ The Decemberists, "When the War Came."_

Ziva had taken to wearing sneakers rather than boots in her retirement, and now her feet were wet and cold after stumbling across sloppy, late-fall backyards. Muddy, half-frozen grass and flowerbeds, storm drains clogged with leaves. Would the winter rains wash away their footprints—her's and her father's? Or would Gibbs find them and send CSU out to make plaster casts? Would a K9 unit be dispatched? They could get her scent from the guest room. She still had a few sweaters and a pair of jeans in the bureau.

The airport terminal was cold, too, but she stood at attention and ignored the shivering that ground her broken ribs together. Her father was arguing with the ticketing agent. Arguing that she was _fine_, that they needed to get on the twelve-oh-five flight to Cairo so they wouldn't miss their connection to Sana'a. Didn't she realize they had a mission to complete? She slumped, tired, and Eli elbowed her back to attention. Could she do _anything_ right?

A man was approaching them. He wore some kind of dark uniform. His badge was so shiny. She slumped again but received no elbow.

"Sir?" he said to Eli. "If you and your daughter can just come with me, we can have her checked out by airport medical staff and get you on your way."

Her father's voice was so _loud_. Why was he screaming? Was he still angry at her for that botched mission to Ri'yad? A shove sent her against the man's shirt and then there was a noise somewhere above her head. She couldn't look up—something clanged in her chest when she raised her chin—and then she was falling. Her father was screaming, someone else was screaming, and then gunshots shattered glass. Oh, it felt _nice_ to be lying down.

Eli pulled her up again, jabbed her broken ribs, jabbed her broken face, ordered her to stand up straight. Hadn't he raised a better soldier than this? The screaming was loud but his disdain was louder. Ziva posted herself up, inch by inch, until she was face-to-chest with her father. He was, she thought, a very large man. Perhaps that was the problem; she hadn't inherited his size or strength. No, she was like her Farsi mother—soft and narrow-shouldered with small hands and feet.

There was more commotion around them—clattering, running footsteps, a baby crying and then being hushed. But where was Sara? With her father, of course. He was most certainly picking her up out of bed, smoothing her hair, kissing her and pulling legwarmers over her cast. They would go to the kitchen, microwave the potato soup she'd made and stored in the refrigerator. He would feed it to her spoonful by spoonful because Sara was cranky when she'd left—the kind of crankiness that meant she needed to be fed and rocked like an infant. The kind of crankiness that Ziva always found herself irritated by and jealous of.

Eli locked his arm around her neck. Lights flashed behind her eyes. He was shouting again, shouting and dragging her backwards. Her ears rang and her shoes squeaked on the polished floor. There was more noise, more running feet and cold air, and then she was sliding down. Something jabbed the good side of her head—the side her father hadn't ruined with his big, mean fist—and then the screaming grew even louder. Ziva closed her eyes and sighed. Would she die _here_—an undignified airport—rather than on the battlefield, fighting for her father?

"Papa," she grunted.

He paused with the gun still pressed to her head.

"Papa, we must go. We must…fight."

Eli relented. She gasped for air. "Yes, Ziva," he said slowly. "We are going. We will fix your mistakes. Stand up for your father."

He let go of her and she stood, shaking under the weight of gravity. She fought against the desire to go to her knees, to lie down, to sleep. There was a war to wage, deaths to avenge, and a plane waiting for them.

"We must go," she said again, and wiped the blood from her mouth with her sleeve. She wished she'd worn her uniform. It would be indecorous to die in her sweater and jeans. She looked sharp in her winter mess dress. It had ben tailored especially for her by an old religious man commissioned by the army. He'd measured her slowly, carefully, and prepared the garments with holy precision. She wore it proudly. Even her father smiled a little when she put on her cover and buttoned her navy jacket. She wanted to see that look in his eye again. She wanted to finish this mission. She wanted to make him proud.

"We must go," she said again.

Eli nodded once, sharply. "Yes, Ziva. We must go."

. . . .

Echoing cries in the vestibule made Ducky lay aside his scalpel and bone saw. "Put Private Reynolds to bed please, Mr. Palmer. I believe we're getting a visitor."

Palmer nodded his curly head. "Right away, Doctor. But maybe this isn't the best time—" He cut himself off when Gibbs strode in with his sobbing child in his arms. He paled, stuttering. "Not that we aren't thrilled to have her," he amended quickly. "She is just _so_ adorable. Even when she's…screaming and red-faced."

Gibbs tossed a go-bag of supplies on one of the autopsy tables and handed Sara over to Palmer. She looked at him—really looked at him—and screamed louder. His ears rang.

"You gotta watch her," Gibbs said evenly. "Diapers and a clean dress are in the bag. Milk, too. She'll cry herself out eventually."

Jimmy rested Sara's legs against a table. She wailed, furious and scared.

"You can't put her down," Gibbs warned. He kissed her head and whispered in her ear in a moment of tenderness Palmer hadn't ever seen from him. Her tears abated momentarily. He went to the elevator.

"Where are you going, Jethro?" Ducky asked, alarmed. "And how long until you return?"

Gibbs turned. "To get Ziva. I'll be back when I can."

He disappeared behind the sliding doors. Ducky and Palmer exchanged worried glances. Sara fussed on, scrawny shoulders rigid above the high rim of the cast. Palmer shushed and rocked but she wouldn't be soothed.

Ducky patted her head. "There, there, principessa."

Daddy!" she wailed furiously. "Daddy! _Daddy!"_

"Your Daddy went to get Ziva, poppet. How about Dr. Ducky gives you a tour of his work?" She quieted, but jumped and clung tighter when he tried to pull her away from Palmer.

He gave a nervous smile. "How does Gibbs do this all day? It's not that she's heavy, she's just…"

"Cumbersome?"

The smile faded. "And…heavy." The wide-open angle of Sara's legs made her awkward to carry. She didn't quite fit on a hip.

Ducky gave a cursory glance around the room. "Give me five minutes, Mr. Palmer. I may have a solution."'

He went to work on a shroud, cutting it with a pair of medical shears, tying the edges together, fashioning a hammock with knots and heavy tape. He had Jimmy turn around, still holding Sara, and wrapped them both in the swath of fabric. He tied it twice—once behind his back, once over his shoulders—and stood back.

"Congratulations, Mr. Palmer. You're now the proud owner of a _onbuhimo_."

"A bambino?"

"_Onbuhimo_—a Japanese-style babywearing apparatus. We can put her on your back if you'd prefer, but at least you have your arms free." He found a pacifier in the go-bag and tucked it between Sara's lips. She pulled it free and pointed; Private Reynolds had gone forgotten since Gibbs' and her arrival. His body had yet to be returned to cold storage.

"He is dead," she said clearly.

Palmer backed up, startled, but Ducky steadied him with a hand on his arm. "Yes, Sara. That man is dead. It is my job to figure out how he died."

She blinked and yawned. Palmer assumed massive, fear-driven temper tantrums were exhausting based on her red eyes and sweaty curls.

"You helping him," she decided.

"I am," he agreed gravely. "But it is as important to figure out how he lived."

She nodded and rested his head on Palmer's chest. He smiled and cupped it with his palm. "Does that man make you scared, Sara?"

"No," she replied plainly.

Ducky beckoned them closer. "Look at Private Reynold's fingertips, Sara. Do you see how they're stained yellow and brown?"

"Yeah."

"That means he smoked a great deal of cigarettes."

She made a face. "I don't liking smoke. S'bad."

"It's a very unhealthy habit. This man probably had a terrible cough. He would have gotten very ill from smoking and died even if he hadn't been shot."

"Dey shoot him," he agreed.

"They did."

She yawned. "They shooted a boy by a wall and Tony helped him. Tony went far away."

"Yes, but Anthony is home now."

"Him is helping Zeeba."

"What happened to Ziva, poppet? Did you see?"

She rubbed her face on the front of Palmer's scrub top. "No. Her Daddy yelling. She say _papa no_ and him hurted her."

"I'm sure it was very frightening for you."

She teared up. "Daddy."

"He is helping Ziva, too, poppet. He will come back soon. Would you like some milk? Perhaps you need some more fever reducer, too."

Palmer pushed a pacifier against her lips and she took it, sighing. "Daddy," she moaned. "Zeeba."

. . . .

She knew they had SWAT there. The sound of their arrival was unmistakable; the rattle of weapons and body armor, the hushed, creeping footsteps, the tapping of helmets. Her vision swam, all bright colors and swirls, and her father's arm tightened, yet again, under her jaw. Blood ran down the back of her throat. She choked and struggled for purchase on the slippery floor. Had they just mopped it?"

"…go, David."

Ziva locked a hand around her father's wrist. Was that Tony? Why had he come? He should be at home, safe on his sofa, watching men play sports on his enormous television. He had no business interfering with their mission. Not when she'd made so many mistakes and had so many debts to pay.

"…go, David," Tony repeated. She _knew_ they had to go. Wasn't that why they were there, at the airport? They were going to Yemen. They were going to fix her egregious error. She'd missed…something. Her father was furious. He'd shunned her, shamed her, refused to let her eat at his table. She'd taken her meals in the kitchen, in the dark, the page in her book held with a finger while she ate. Her arm hurt. He was pulling on it, tearing her rifle strap from her shoulder. Would he make her walk into the firefight without it?

"…_go, David!"_ Tony shrieked one more time. Eli's arm tightened around her neck, cutting off her oxygen. No. This was wrong. He wasn't supposed to do this. How would she complete the mission if he strangled her before they got on the plane? How would she make him proud?

There was a loud noise, a noise like rockets over S'derot, and then she was falling forward. The polished airport tiles came up to meet her face. Oh. Ow. There was pressure—_tremendous_ pressure—all around her, and darkness.

Ziva remembered snorkeling with her mother in Eilat. How the pressure had grown when she dove down, how she'd grabbed her mask and popped her ears, how the fish swam by razor-fast, all color and light under the surface. She missed her mother. She _wanted_ her mother. She wanted her mother to cradle her aching face and sing to her. Sing the lullabies they'd sung to Tali, who'd had terrible colic in the first months. Ziva brushed her fingers down her side and jumped at the increase in pain; was _that_ how colic felt? No. It didn't matter. She'd failed. She'd failed, but at least her mother could sing her down, down. Where was she? _Laila, laila_, Rivka would sing. _ Ha ruach goveret_…_homa hatzameret…_

_The horsemen are coming, my child. _

. . . .

Gibbs pushed through the surgical waiting room doors. Tony sat alone, head hanging, chin on his chest. He raised it slightly and gave a watery smile.

"How is she?" Gibbs asked, lowering himself into a chair. Sara shifted and sighed in her new carrier, sleepy.

DiNozzo shook his head. "Not so good. Her face, Boss…she's got a bunch of broken bones on the left side. He ambushed her, it looks like. Skull fracture, broken eye socket, broken jaw."

He nodded and stroked Sara's cheek. "They gonna wire her shut?"

"Too soon to tell."

"That all?"

"Broken wrist, broken ribs, pneumothorax—they put in a chest tube. That's why she was gasping when I rolled David off her." He paused to swallow and flexed his hands. "She'll be here for a while."

Gibbs nodded. "Head injuries?"

"Yeah. They don't know how bad yet. There were no bleeds on any of her scans, though, so they're hopeful." He reached over Gibbs' arm to stroke Sara's curls, but frowned and pulled back. "What is that thing?"

He smirked. "Breena gave it to us. It's some kind of ergonomic baby carrier. Holds up to fifty pounds. I get my hands back."

"Must be nice," he said vaguely. "You cozy in there, Buglet?" She blinked at him and smiled around the pacifier.

Gibbs kissed her head. "Hasn't said much lately. Probably pretty shook up." She sighed again and her eyes rolled. "Pretty tired, too."

Tony offered them a tiny smile, but it faded fast. "What about David?"

"Morgue. Embassy got involved. Said we couldn't autopsy him."

He scoffed. "_Now_ they're involved? _After_ they let him get on a plane, break into your house, beat the living daylights out of his daughter and then _kidnap_ her and try to drag her onto a commercial airliner? _After_ we have to take him out with SWAT and the Feebs and…?" He shook his head. "What a mess, Boss. What a mess."

A doctor came through the opposite door. She was petite, dark haired, and wearing high-tech sneakers with her green scrubs. Her shoes were the same style and brand they'd taken off Ziva in the emergency room. Gibbs resolved to replace them for her.

"Family of Ziva David?" she asked innocently, even though they were the only ones there.

"Yeah," Tony said, rising.

"Come on back and see her," she said softly. "We'll talk on the way."

He dragged a hand over Sara's hair and saluted Gibbs with a smirk. "On the other side, Boss," he said, and followed the doctor into the recovery unit.

. . . .

The smell of food—a lot of food, all of it prepared recently—wafted toward Gibbs when he unlocked Ziva's condo and struggled inside. He was laden with bags, his daughter, and the two kittens, whom he'd found hiding in a bush in his backyard. He set them loose and unstrapped Sara, who woke with a sharp gasp. She glanced around, tiny brow furrowed in confusion.

"Where?" she demanded fuzzily.

"Ziva's house," he replied.

She nodded. "Oh, yeah."

He threw one of the beanbag chairs down on the floor and bent to put her in it, but she squawked a loud _No!_ so he buckled her back into the carrier. He didn't mind, really. She got the cuddling she needed and he got free hands to prepare quick sandwiches for dinner. He paced as they ate, and then he found the guest room, where he unpacked a few of Sara's things—pajamas, clean diaper, pacifier—and arranged the beanbag. She'd sleep in it tonight. He undressed and redressed her quickly, though the apartment was warm. Of course it was. Ziva hated to be cold.

He looked again at the beanbag and shifted Sara against the pillows instead. He needed her close. He needed to know that he'd saved at least one life. He cupped her small bare feet in his palms and examined her for bruises-for any indication that Eli had put his hands on her. There was nothing save for a small smudge of tomato aioli from her sandwich. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and reached for the pacifier.

"Ready for sleep, sweet pea?"

She nodded. "Yeah. M'tired."

"No nap, huh?"

"Zeeba's daddy."

His throat closed. Daughters were such precious things.

Sara made a muffled _mmph_ sound around the pacifier. "Daddy?"

"What, sweet pea?"

She stretched her arms over her head. "Zeeba will being ok."

He smirked at her in the low lamplight. "You think so?"

"Yeah. She will being ok. She will be sad, Daddy, but she will being ok."

"What should we do for her?" He lay down next to her in the bed and kicked off his boots.

Sara thought for a minute, both hands resting lightly on the crown of her head. "You be her daddy, too. You have to hold. You have to be...gentle."

Gibbs smiled. "That's what you think I need to do?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "You need to doing that."

He pulled her against him, sliding her across the bedclothes like an overturned turtle, and cocked his knee up so her legs could rest against it.

"I love you, baby girl," he whispered.

She slurped her soother. "Love you too, Daddy," she murmured, and slept.

Gibbs left the lamp on and the door open and went out to the living room. It was a small unit in a small building—only two bedrooms, two baths, and a square living space shared with the kitchen—but Ziva had taken great pains to make it homey. To make it _hers_. _Had she ever owned anything?_ The furniture was overstuffed and draped with colorful throws, the fridge was doubly stocked, and the guest bath had spare toothbrushes lined up in a row on a shelf.

There were photographs everywhere. Every surface held at least one snapshot, and they were all of the team—Ziva and Abby laughing at a café, Tony and Ziva playing in the snow, one of them from Paris, one of Tony and Tim behaving like small boys, two or more off all of them together. There were a great number of photos from Sara's adoption celebration, all framed identically and lined up on the old-fashioned radiator cover. He smiled at one of Ziva and Sara sharing some fruit toward the end of the evening. The look on his daughter's face was of pure adoration as Ziva, stilled forever by the closing of aperture, offered her a ripe, late-season strawberry. Another was of he and Ziva at a picnic table, fawning over his newly-adopted daughter like a proud sibling.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. He hoped fiercely that she was angry with him. She had every right to be.

A noise from the bedroom made him pause, but Sara sighed and settled again, sleeping her child's sleep, secure in knowing her father would keep her safe.

. . . .

Ziva had been moved to a private room on Bethesda's quiet fifth floor. Gibbs found Abby pacing outside the door when he arrived, sniffling and teetering on her tall platform boots. She broke into hard sobs when he stopped before her and put both hands on her shoulders.

"I can't go in there," she blurted. "She looks _terrible._" He didn't doubt it. "She looks terrible and it is _our_ fault," she continued. "Do you know what I said to her? I told her to go to him. I told her that Eli was her father and she should try to…_something_. But just…_try_, you know? And look at what he did—he tried to _kill her_, Gibbs! He tried to kill her _after _I guilted her into trying to love him."

He hugged her, surprised. Abby stomped and pouted and glowered and teared up, sure, but never had he seen her cry as openly and brokenly and _guiltily_ as she did now.

He held her for a long while in the silent hallway and listened to drizzle spatter against the glass. "DiNozzo in there?" he asked, motioning toward the door neither of them had pushed open.

"Yeah," she moaned.

"Why don't you take him for a coffee. I'll sit with Ziver for a while, ok?"

She nodded and wrung her hands, green eyes big and bloodshot. "Ok."

Gibbs stepped into the tiny room—it was more of a cubicle, really—and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. He jumped with a soft snort.

"Boss?"

"Yeah." He sat next to him in a hard chair. "You been here all night?"

Tony ran a hand down his face. "Yeah."

"She still sedated?"

"No, they took her off the heavy stuff earlier. Now its just painkillers. Nurse said she could wake up at any time." He yawned and shook out his hands. "Where's Sara?"

"With Palmer."

"In the _morgue_? Boss, that's not cool. She'll end up dressing like Abby."

Gibbs shrugged and looked at Ziva for the first time. Her head was swathed in surgical dressings and elastic bandages, but what he could see—her right eye, her mouth, the tip of her small, round nose—was swollen and discolored. "What's the damage?" he asked quietly.

"Fractures of her zygomatic arch, temporal bone, mandible and nose. Three broken ribs, collapsed lung, broken wrist. Grade three concussion." Tony bowed his head. "They're worried."

"About?"

"Hearing and vision. Ruptured her eardrum. Doc said something about retinal detachment. She'll have a consult with an eye surgeon when the concussion clears." He wiped his mouth as if embarrassed. "They uh, they didn't wire her shut. They couldn't—she lost two teeth on the left side. The oral surgeon put in some splint that she'll need to wear for a few months. Said she'll be pretty hard to understand for a while." He felt around in his pocket. "I got a bunch of papers here about what they did to her. I'll have to look them over."

Gibbs took the pamphlets. Between Ziva and Sara he could start his own publishing house for hospital literature. "Go get something to eat," he said gently. "I'll stay with her."

Tony stood and worked the stiffness out of his legs. "She might be scared when she wakes up. Tell her…tell her there's nothing to be afraid of anymore."

He nodded. DiNozzo left and he moved closer to the bed. Ziva's right hand was splinted, but the left was free, pierced by only a single IV needle. He lifted it and marveled at how small and light it was—small and light and _unblemished_ with defensive wounds. She hadn't fought back. Guilt racked him again, curdling his stomach contents so sharply he thought he'd toss them onto the floor.

Ziva moaned. He chafed her knuckles with his thumb. "Ziver?"

She moaned again and shifted slightly.

"Ziver? You awake?"

One puffy brown eye peered up at him. He grinned. "Hey. I know you're in pain, but can you squeeze my hand?"

She squeezed. He rang for the nurse. "We're going to get you something to knock down the hurt, Ziver. Just hang with me."

A nurse and a doctor came. Neither of them bothered to introduce themselves until after they performed a neurological exam and declared Ziva as conscious as she was going to get.

"She can't talk right now," the nurse snapped. "So don't bother asking her a bunch of questions. You can come back when she's feeling better."

"I'm not a cop," Gibbs allayed. "I'm a friend."

She puckered her mouth. "Your haircut tells a different story. I'll get her a whiteboard, but nothing pushy."

She left and he picked up Ziva's hand again. "Hey," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Ziver. I'm really, really sorry."

She blinked at him.

"I should have listened to you. I should have protected you and I didn't. I'm sorry."

She made a stifled sound and huffed into the oxygen tent strapped just under her chin. Her breathing picked up and she began to cry, tears dampening the bandaged wrapped around and around her head.

"I'm sorry," he said again. His chest tightened. Failure gripped him so hard he nearly gasped. "I'm sorry."

Ziva clasped his hand and let go, clasped it and let go. Over and over she squeezed and released, crying soft mewling sounds around the splint cemented to her teeth.

The puckery-faced nurse returned with a syringe, a dry-erase board, and a marker. "Here, little thing," she cooed, dabbing Ziva's tears with soft gauze. "Here's some medicine and a note board. You write down whatever you need to, ok?"

She blinked in response and fumbled the marker around the splint. Gibbs uncapped it for her and elevated the bed so she could see.

_Sara? _she scrawled unsteadily.

"With Palmer. She's ok. You were protecting her, weren't you?"

_Yes_.

He looked at her with tremendous gratitude. "Thank you."

She blinked.

_Father_?

His heart sank. "He died, Ziver."

_Yes._

"I'm sorry."

_Ok.  
_He sat back in one of the chairs. Grief would come later, he supposed. "I stayed at your place last night," he blurted.

She gave him a sharp look.

"I didn't make a mess. We ate some of the pastrami you had in the fridge and we slept in the guest room." He paused, gauging her for a response, but pushed on when she didn't appear to be angry. "I can't take Sara back there. I can't take _you_ back there, Ziver. To my house, I mean. I think I'm gonna sell it. I think we need to move." _Move on_ is what he meant.

She narrowed her good eye at him and wrote _yes_, sharply on her board. Her loopy handwriting was growing sloppier. She'd be asleep again soon.

Gibbs slid forward and reached for her hand again. She laced their fingers together, clumsy with meds.

"Sleep, Ziver," he whispered.

She blinked and handed him the marker.

"I've got you, ok? Just sleep."


	15. Silver Dagger

_****_**Many, many thanks to Amilyn, who is essential in helping me turn nonsense into _something_. Thanks to all of your for the perpetual favorites and review and love and good stuff. **

**. . . .**

Seems_ every castle is made of sand._

_The great destroyer sleeps in every man._

_-Gillian Welch, "Silver Dagger."_

Gibbs nudged the stroller against the wall and waited for Tony to get his candy and soda from the hallway vending machine. He'd been summoned by a text message while Sara was with her therapist. The session had been difficult, and now she catnapped under the long sunshade with her green blanket draped over her head.

DiNozzo looked worried. Grizzled, even. He badly needed a shave, a haircut, and—judging by the slightly fetid odor emanating from his clothes—a shower. "You sure you're ok with this, Boss?" he asked. He tore the corner off the candy package with his teeth and spat the slip of plastic into a trashcan. "The nurses took off the compression bandages but she still looks pretty bad."

Gibbs pulled back the visor. Sara pulled her blanket down and peered up with red-rimmed eyes. "I know you're tired," he said gently. "But Ziva really wants to see you. Are you ok with that?"

Sara nodded and bunched the blanket around her face. "M'not scared," she said from inside the fabric.

"It's ok if you are."

She put the blanket aside. "M'not. M'not scared of seeing Zeeba."

He looked back up at Tony and shrugged. "Guess we're ok with it. She awake?"

"Doc just finished. Let me make sure she's still up for it." He slipped into the darkened room and then his voice filtered out though the door as he pre

Gibbs knelt before his daughter and put both hands on her legs. "Sweet pea," he said firmly. "Ziva isn't feeling well. She might be sick, or sad, and her face doesn't look like it usually does. She has some broken bones and she's dizzy. She can't talk, either, so we have to be very gentle and patient. Can we trust you to do that?"

Sara gave her father a hardened look and he got a glimpse into her huffing, eye-rolling teenage years. "_Yes_, Daddy," she grumbled. "I _know_. Zeeba got hurt by her daddy. She can't see too good."

"That's right, sweet pea. That's why we're going to be very gentle and calm."

She hooked her fingers over the top of her cast and gave him a withering, grey-green glance. "I be'd in a hospital before."

Tony poked his head out. "Come on in, guys. She's ready for you."

Gibbs lifted Sara out of the stroller and carried her in. Ziva was propped on a dozen pillows, good eye closed against the shaft of hallway fluorescence. A patch was taped over her left eye and her head was still swaddled in gauze.

"They're going to repair her eardrum tomorrow morning," Tony explained, motioning toward the bandages. "Her ear canal will be packed with gauze for six weeks afterward. Make sure you're standing in front of her if you want her to hear what you're saying—she needs to see your mouth move to understand. It's temporary, though. She'll heal fast."

He doubted that. "Hey, Ziver," he said, taking her small, undamaged hand. She blinked up at him, momentarily confused. "Got someone here to see you."

"Hi," Sara piped. "Hi, Zeeba. We sleep at your house. I miss you."

Ziva patted Sara's leg and then the bed. Gibbs waited for Tony to approve before lowering her to the mattress. She threw one arm over Ziva's and sighed.

"You feel bad?" Sara asked tenderly.

"Yes," Tony supplied. "She feels pretty bad."

"I know," she continued. "I know you feel bad. But it's ok. There's Tony and Daddy and me and Abby and everyone to take care of you. And Ducky. And Jimmy Palmer. I took a ride on Jimmy's shirt and now Daddy carries me on _his_ shirt." She softened and rubbed her hand over the scab on Ziva's arm; the extra IV port had been removed. "I know you feel bad," she said again. "Your daddy was mean to hurt you."

Ziva broke down, crying silent, desperate tears against the scratchy hospital pillowcase.

Tony adjusted the oxygen tent beneath her chin. "Slow breaths, Zi."

She pointed at _ok_ scrawled on her message board and closed her eye.

Sara put her thumb in her mouth and hummed, wiggling her toes and stroking Ziva's arm. "S'ok, Zeeba," she slurred in sing-song. "S'ok. S'ok, Zeeba. S'ok."

Ziva drifted off, only to startle awake again when a nurse barged in. "You need to sit up," she urged, businesslike. "And we need to see if you can handle swallowing blended food. You can't leave until you're eating."

Gibbs scooped Sara away. Ziva eased herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She pointed at the in-room recliner.

"Yeah," the nurse acknowledged. She removed the oxygen tent and her tone hardened. "But don't you stand up before someone's got you."

Gibbs glanced at her wrist. A yellow band indicated she was a fall risk. Tony moved to her good side, threaded his arm behind her back, and put his hand on her hip. It took the four shuffling steps to get to the chair and then a long descent to get her seated. She exhaled and a pillow was shoved between her broken ribs and the arm.

"Chest tube is out," the nurse informed them. "So is the Foley. If she can swallow we'll send her home tomorrow after her tympanoplasty."

Gibbs smiled and reached out to stroke her hair, but Tony pushed his hand away. "Don't touch her head," he snapped. "She's hurting. Shoulders, arms, hands—all fine. Nothing higher."

He nodded, oddly indignant. "Doing ok, Ziver?" She gave a tiny shrug. "We're going to your place when they cut you loose." he reminded gently. He'd told her before but her recall was poor and he doubted she could remember. "Palmer and McGee and I cleaned out my house. It's going on the market Monday morning."

She motioned for her white board and pointed at _yes_. He guessed that meant she was ok with his decision.

_You stay with me?_ she wrote.

"Until you're ok to be on your own."

She patted Sara's leg and then the empty space on the seat beside her. The nurse shook her head. "No, Ziva. Little ones are pretty wriggly. I wouldn't want her to hurt you."

Gibbs lifted the hem of Sara's dress to show off her cast. "This one doesn't," he said easily.

Her cheeks reddened. "Oh, I'm so sorry. With her dress and those funny tights I didn't even notice."

He gave her a small smile. "Can I put her down?"

"Yes. Let me get another pillow. Ziva, you tell me right away if something hurts. I'm going to grab your lunch order and we'll work on getting it down, ok?"

_Yes_.

Sara put a hand on Ziva's leg and began to croon again. "S'ok, Zeeba," she sang. _S'ok, s'ok. Zeeba is ok. _Ziva relaxed, sinking further into the pillows, and Tony gave Gibbs a small smile.

"Buglet's got some good juju, Boss. Zi hasn't been that calm since…well, not in a long time."

He nodded and paced, arranging the flower vases into a perfect line on the windowsill. Tony's guilt was obvious and all consuming. Gibbs swallowed a sigh—he knew how that felt. It would be a long time before either of them slept through the night.

The nurse clamored back in. She pinned a drape around Ziva's neck and held up a wide-bore syringe and a thin tube. "This is how you'll eat until the oral surgeon adjusts your splint. The end of this tube goes all the way back in your cheek—I'll guide it, just sit tight—and when you're ready I'll push a little bit of this soup. It's very bland, but you can make your own stuff at home. Feel free to be creative. I had a patient who found a way to blend tacos while he was wired shut."

She paled.

"Don't knock it," she quipped. "You'll get tired of soup in a hurry."

She gave Gibbs and Tony an imploring look that meant _don't you dare liquefy anything without my approval_.

Sara took up crooning again, patting Ziva's leg in time with her little song. _S'ok, Zeeba, you're ok_.

The nurse had to smile. "You're a sweet little thing, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sara agreed sincerely.

There was laughter, but everyone grew serious again when the syringe was attached to the tube. "You might have some trouble swallowing around the appliance. We'll go very slowly."

Ziva pointed at _yes_, but recoiled the minute the mixture hit the back of her throat.

"Weird, huh?"

She pointed at _yes_ again and wiped her mouth with a gauze pad.

Gibbs took it from her and ran his fingers down her arm. Her hand was swollen under the splint. "Take it easy," he said gently. "And I think this is too tight."

Ziva hadn't heard him. She flapped a hand at the syringe. _Again_, it meant, but she coughed and pulled back a second time.

Sara peered up at her face. "Slurp, Zeeba. Slurp like—" she made a loud gulping noise. Ziva followed suit with a sound of her own and the blended broth began to disappear.

Tony gave a nervous smile. "There ya go, sweet cheeks," he praised.

She pulled away when the soup was halfway gone and waved her hand again, indicating _no more_.

Tony jumped up. "Is it ok that she only took half? Do you like it, Zi? Should we try something else?"

"She is done," Sara said tartly. "She doesn't want any more."

"A hundred and fifty ccs is a good start," the nurse said absently, adding notes to Ziva's computerized chart. "She can get back in bed."

"Don't make her do more," Sara warned, one finger pointed at Tony's face.

"I won't, Bug," he replied distractedly. He took Ziva's hand and ducked his head to get her attention. "Back in bed?"

She pointed at _Yes_ and stood when he took her elbow. He scooted her back onto the mattress and tucked Sara in next to her, draping the green blanket over both of them. Ziva sighed, Sara sighed, and then they were both dozing, hands intertwined.

Tony sat in the abandoned recliner. "Looks like the Bug has taken it upon herself to be Ziva's spokesperson."

Gibbs shrugged and stared out the window. Low clouds meant snow. He'd have to buy Sara a winter coat. Maybe they already had one; he'd have to check the storage unit. "She's paying it forward," he finally said.

Tony nodded, but seemed unsettled, even anxious. "You think she's going to be ok, Boss?"

"Yeah," he answered noncommittally. He didn't have a clue, really. "Gonna take a while."

He nodded again. "Is Sara psychic?" he blurted suddenly. "She just…knows stuff. Weirds me out. And it happens all the time, especially with Ziva."

Gibbs scoffed aloud. "You gotta be kidding me, DiNozzo."

"She _knows_ stuff, Boss. She knew Zi was going to get hurt, she knew Almsolino had been killed, and I think she knew David was coming for her."

"Bull."

"Explain it, then," he ordered, running a hand through his hair. He wouldn't look away from Ziva's face. "Explain how she knew about Almsolino after her surgery, because she sure as hell wasn't watching ZNN in the OR. Explain why she was so adamant that Ziva didn't go running on that morning Murphy and his crew were out looking for her."

"She was throwing a tantrum because she wanted something she couldn't have. My kid isn't a fortuneteller. She's a little girl with developmental delays and a nasty genetic disease. You want psychics? Call a hotline. And go home. Shower. Eat. You look like hell."

"I'm not leaving."

Gibbs softened and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll keep watch. Go."

Tony shook his head. "I'm not leaving," he replied simply. "I'm not leaving this building unless it's with Ziva."

He jabbed the button and the nurse came quickly. "Tony needs a set of scrubs," he solicited. "And some soap. He needs a shower."

She smiled. "I was wondering when you were going to ask. I'll be back in a second. Are Ziva and the little one comfortable?"

Tony stared at the bed's occupants with a little wonderment. He gave his most charming trademark smile but there was a definite sharpness in his green eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Just don't move them. I don't know who would throw the bigger tantrum."

. . . .

Abby let herself into Ziva's condo at a little after seven. Gibbs had dusted and vacuumed while Sara took her afternoon nap, then had her help direct him in creating clear paths between the kitchen, living room, and master bedroom.

"Looks good," Abby complimented quietly. Her eyes were still a bit watery, but Tim came in before Gibbs could ask about it. He was carrying a stack of plastic food storage containers, each containing watery goo.

"Blended potato soup, blended vegetable soup, and blended chicken soup," he explained nervously. "More in the car." He left again, keys jingling in his pocket.

Abby wrung her hands. "I stopped by the hospital after you left. Ziva was still asleep. She looks better but…"

He grimaced and poured whole milk into a sip-cup. "I know. We'll get her through it."

She wasn't appeased. "I read about Jewish death and mourning rituals. I think she'll want to sit shiva for her father."

Anger wrapped icy fingers around his gut. He almost slammed the refrigerator door. "He tried to kill her, Abs."

"He was an awful human being. He abused his family, abused his position, abused his country but…but he was still her _dad_, Gibbs. She still loved him. She needs to grieve. It's not for _him; _it's for _her_." She paused to swallow. He could feel her eyes on his face. "So there are a few things we need to do-cover the mirrors, prepare food. I don't think her broken ribs will let her sit on a low bench, so the couch will have to work." She paced the small living area, stacking Ziva's many novels and placing them strategically at the corner of the end table. "And one thing the website kept stressing was not to speak to a mourner—they're too distraught to make small talk or entertain idle gossip or pleasantries. Let her address us first."

Gibbs smirked mirthlessly. "Ziva talk first? Tell me when she can do that. I'll be putting my kid to bed."

Sara grinned at him from the beanbag on the guest room floor and held her arms up. His heart rate slowed as he breathed in the scent of her lavender soap and clean pajamas. "Hi, baby," he cooed. "Are you going to have a good night?"

She gulped milk and studied his face, blinking in the low lamplight. "Dunno," she admitted.

"Should you go in Daddy's bed?"

She nodded, still drinking.

"Ok. You can sleep in the big bed. Can I put you back in the beanbag to get the pillows ready?"

She shook her head. "No. You hold me."

"Ok. I'll hold you, then." He kissed her head. "You did such a nice job at the hospital today. I liked how gentle you were."

"Yeah," she slurred. "We take care of her."

"We will," he agreed. "We all will."

"She is sad. Her daddy died."

Yes. Eli was dead. Gibbs had killed him. He'd climbed atop the arrivals monitors, lined up the shot, waited, and taken it. Eli had fallen directly on Ziva, breaking her wrist and sending the jagged edges of her broken ribs into her pleural cavity. He'd heard her gasping for air in the silence after the shot had been fired.

"Her daddy died," he echoed softly.

"He hurted her," Sara asserted. "He hurted her face and she sees blurs. And he hurted her ear. And he hurted her head. And her back."

"Her back?"

"Mm hmm." She was falling asleep fast. "With his belt. Mur'Wolcott."

"Mr. Wolcott is gone," he whispered. "Your daddy is here. Sleep, sweet pea." He put the empty cup on the nightstand and wiped a few drops of milk from her lower lip. She pressed her face against the front of his shirt, dark curls a heavy thatch over her face, and sighed a soft, baby-sigh.

"I love you, sweet girl," he whispered. Sara didn't respond, but her fingers curled around a fistful of his shirt. He swayed on the edge of the bed, swallowing tears. He'd awoken that morning and known that leaving would be a mistake, but he'd ignored the familiar rolling and churning, the fire in his esophagus, the ache somewhere in his chest; Eli was dirty, but never in a million years did Gibbs think he'd fly halfway across the globe to beat the living daylights out of his adult daughter.

Daughters. Such complicated things. Sara could run hot and cold, but she loved her family fiercely. Maybe she _had_ known, he mused silently. Maybe those morning tantrums meant they weren't safe, and he needed to stay home and protect them. She was growing heavy in his arms. He peered down at her face. "Were you trying to tell me something, baby?" he asked softly.

Sara slept, breathing softly, still clutching a swatch of his shirt. He worked it from her hand and laid her in the bed. He fussed, propping her with pillows and rolled towels, until he was certain she was comfortable. "Goodnight," he whispered. "I'll be in soon."

Tim was arranging the contents of the fridge. Each dish of soup had been labeled with contents, amount, date of preparation, and possible allergens. Gibbs retrieved a can of club soda.

"The soups are all vegan," Tim said urgently, Adam's apple bobbing in his pale throat. "I wasn't sure if gluten or dairy were appropriate for Ziva, given the medications she's bound to be on. I researched the modified Herbst appliance the oral surgeon prescribed. It's bonded to her teeth, right?"

"Think so," Gibbs shrugged and took another pull of sparkling water. He couldn't get enough of it. Was there another in there, among the soups and smoothies?

McGee carried on, rambling in nervousness. "If it's bonded that means they'll probably leave it in for a while. The literature says it's hinged at the upper and lower molars. The surgeon can open the hinges so she can eat and speak once the initial healing takes place."

He finished one can and popped the tab on another. "English, McGee."

"She'll be on liquids for a while," he finished awkwardly.

Gibbs put the empty in the recycling bin. "She can't hear. Not unless you're right in her face, anyway."

Tim nodded. "Nothing is definite. So much of treating head trauma is just waiting to see how she heals."

He snorted. Fury tightened his fists around the lip of the sink. He had to take many deep breaths to quell the urge to punch out he window before him. Downtown Silver Spring sparkled six stories below. People shopped, shared tapas and bottles of wine, herded their children from one storefront to another, pointing out items in the old-fashioned window displays. He wanted their wholeness.

Tim labeled a basket of feeding syringes and tubes and pushed it back against the backsplash. He drummed his fingers for a minute, then stood up straight and looked Gibbs in the eye for the first time.

"I keep wondering if I could've worked _harder_ or _smarter_…if there was a way to prevent Ziva from getting hurt," he said sadly, shaking his head. "Call me if you think she's up to visiting." He offered a half-wave and let himself out.

Abby hustled from the laundry room into the bedroom, arms laden with clean towels and sheets. Gibbs fished a screwdriver out of Ziva's toolkit and leveled the pantry door, then threw it back in, hard. The contents rattled. He slammed the drawer shut and they rattled again, louder.

Abby snapped a throw blanket and folded it into a neat rectangle. "You're going to wake Sara," she warned.

He turned to look at her, stiff and angry. Claustrophobia tightened its fingers in his throat. "I need to go out," he said thickly. "Watch her for me."

Her brows went up. "You ok? Want me to get you something?"

"I just need to get out of here," he maintained. He yanked his coat down from the halltree and crammed his arms into the sleeves, feeling trapped and useless.

She nodded urgently, bouncing on her sneaker soles. "What should I do if Sara wakes up?"

"Tell her I'll be back," he said easily, rooting for his keys. "Tell her I'll always be back."

. . . .

He'd gone to his basement. His cold, damp, familiar basement, still redolent with the smells of his work—sawdust, oily rags, wood stains, the faint smokiness of bourbon. There were other smells, too, both real and imagined: Kelly's nail polish, Shannon's shepherd's pie, Sara's lavender soap. Absent was the musky sandalwood and bergamot of Ziva's perfume. Gibbs craved that bourbon but the workbench was empty; his tools in storage, his booze poured out, the bottle recycled.

He swayed like an elephant until Ducky tread lightly down the stairs. His overcoat was wet with sleet, his hair sparkling with thawing ice. "Jethro," he said mildly. "I assumed I'd find you here."

Gibbs leaned on the bench and crossed his arms. "Ya think, Duck?"

"I just came from the hospital," he carried on, ignoring the jab. "Ziva appears to be improving steadily. She's relieved to be going home tomorrow."

"She tell you that herself?"

"Of course not, Jethro. She isn't up to speaking."

He fought the urge to stomp his heavy boots and won. "She can't."

"She could make herself understood if she needed to, but there simply isn't a need. What is there to say? Her father is dead, she's in pain, and now it is time to grieve. Allow her that; it's only human."

His jaw tightened. "Where's David now?"

Ducky's voice was light and even. "Jewish burial laws dictate a body must be interred within thirty-six hours. Transport picked him up the minute he landed on my table."

"You get anything? Prelims?"

"I took x-rays and a few noninvasive samples, but there was little I could do given how quickly they removed him from our custody. He was a healthy adult except for the French cigarettes he enjoyed."

"Healthy adults don't kill their children."

Ducky rocked. "Eli David's illness wasn't something I could find on an image of his lungs or his brain. He was not just a sick man, Jethro; he was toxic."

Gibbs nodded, eyes on the dusty basement floor. "He beat her."

"Of course he did. He beat her, shamed her, sent her into dangerous situations again and again with the idea that she was expendable, replaceable. Eli has taken everything from Ziva—family, country, sense of safety, sense of purpose. Let her mourn. Let her need the only family she has ever known."

"Families protect each other," he snarled.

"Ziva is alive because of you," Ducky said lowly.

"He never should've gotten to her in the first place," Gibbs exploded. "We shoulda had a mark on him the minute he sent Michael Rivkin over here."

He shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Jethro; the danger began long before you or I or Jenny met Ziva. Eli prescribed her role the minute she entered the world. We could not save her and it isn't possible to go back in time to do so. We can only move forward." He put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "I'll call next week to check on Ziva's progress. Perhaps I'll visit if she's up to it. Goodnight, my friend. Go to your daughter and sleep."

. . . .

Gibbs didn't sleep. He tossed and turned and paced the apartment, waiting for light to appear on Ziva's framed photos. He eschewed making a pot of coffee and woke Sara instead. "Big day, sweet pea," he announced. "We're going to pick Ziva up and bring her home."

She yawned and hugged him hard. "And Tony," she reminded.

"And Tony."

He dressed her in her favorite purple dress and legwarmers. Socks and soft leather moccasins went on her feet. She grinned at him and he sat back, awed and smling. His daughter was _cute_. _Really_ cute. And he was suddenly very anxious to get going. "Want to eat breakfast in the car?" he asked.

She scowled. "No, Daddy. Breakfast at the table."

He served instant oatmeal in one of Ziva's heavy stoneware bowls. Sara scowled again, spoon poised at her mouth. "Where's my poppins, Daddy?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Do you remember where you left them?"

"In my bed," she said slowly.

He hadn't seen them when he'd broken down her bed and moved it into storage. "Maybe they're in your backpack with your books and your crazy legs."

She shrugged and didn't appear totally distraught. "Zeeba will finding them," she said resolutely.

"Probably. Remember—she's still not feeling well and she still can't talk. We have to be very—"

"Gentle," she interrupted. "I _know_." She pushed her bowl at him. "I'm done. Did you pack clothes for Zeeba? She needs them. And shoes. No one bringed her shoes yet."

He gave her a toothbrush, water, and a spit-cup. "Brush and rinse. I'm going to get her clothes."

"She needs the grey sweater with buttons and soft pants, not jeans. And socks. And underwears. And her soft coat and…that's it, I think. Maybe mittens. I need mittens, too. It's so cold out."

He tuned the television to ZNN and listened to the local weather insert while he packed Ziva's clothes and took the sneakers he'd bought her out of the box. They were small and light. He laced them and finished with runner's loops, though he doubted she'd be running anytime soon.

He returned to the kitchen with Ziva's go-bag on his shoulder and wiped away Sara's toothpaste beard. "Ready, kid?"

"Yeah," she said happily, but sobered quickly. "I want to be on your shirt. I don't want to go in the stroller."

He picked her up. "I love you," he breathed. "I love you very much. I'll hold you as much as you need, ok?"

"Ok." She sniffled and glanced up briefly, revealing tears in her eyes.

"Why are you sad?" he asked delicately.

"Dunno."

"Are you sad for Ziva?"

"Yeah," she admitted.

"Are you sad for you?"

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me why?"

"I miss Mommy," she said lowly.

He knew it would have to come up sometime. The near loss of her closest ally and idol had been the trigger. He strapped on the carrier though it was a short walk down to the car. "I am so sorry, sweet pea."

She sniffled again. "I wanna go get Zeeba."

"We will. Should we get her a present?"

"Some poppins," she decided. "Let's go."

. . . .

Ziva was still clearly concussed. She bobbed and weaved up the hall to her door, even with Tony anchored to her side, and leaned against the wall while he opened up. Gibbs watched from a few steps behind with his daughter in the carrier on his chest. Sara had fallen silent as soon as they'd entered the hospital room and had remained so the whole way home.

"C'mon, Zi," Tony urged. "Careful." He turned her so she could see the living space and motioned to the couch. "Nice clear road there. Let's take a load off, eh?"

She peered around the condo with her one good eye and gave the tiniest headshake Gibbs had ever seen. It spoke volumes about the pain she was in.

"She needs meds," he groused at Tony, one hand cupped over Sara's head. She was quiet, sucking her thumb and watching everyone with cautious curiosity.

"I'm on it," he replied, digging through the bags for her prescription painkillers. Gibbs hovered, stroking Sara's arm with his fingertips. Tony paused, bottle of liquid Percocet poised in the air over the dosing syringe. "I said I'm on it," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You're not the only one who loves her, Boss."

"I know."

He turned slowly, worrying about startling the child strapped to Gibbs' chest. "I know you need to be here. I know Sara needs to be here. _I_ need to be here. Let me do this."

Gibbs stepped back and they both looked at Ziva. She was still standing between the living room and the foyer, swaying slightly, the bad side of her face toward them. It was a wash of purple and black, left eye and ear hidden by bandages and protective covers. Her broken hand was pressed over her broken mouth.

Tony went around to her good side. "Zi? Let's do this and then you can lie down. Does that sound ok?"

She gave a tiny nod, took the tube from him, and stuffed it back in her cheek without so much as a glance at him. He didn't use the syringe plunger, but rather held it in the air so gravity could do its work. Ziva swallowed delicately, crimped the tube, and handed it back, still without making eye contact.

He shoved the dispenser at Gibbs and took her elbow. "C'mon, babe. Bed?"

They disappeared, but Tony left the bedroom door open. He could hear the quiet sounds of sleep—her sliding out of her sweater, Tony peeling off her sneakers, the shifting of blankets. He was murmuring soft things to her, promises, Gibbs assumed, that she was safe, that they would take care of her, that the pain would fade and she would be better, better. He knew she didn't believe him.

Sara sighed and clutched her father's shirtsleeves. "Don't go, Daddy," she murmured.

"I won't, baby girl," he cooed. He washed the medication syringe and put it to dry in the dish rack. He hummed under his breath, hoping she'd fall asleep. She did, eventually, seawater eyes sliding closed as Tony resurfaced from the bedroom, eyes drooping. They exchanged looks over her head, and Gibbs raised one finger, indicating he'd put her down for a nap.

She went down with her pacifier and without a fuss and he returned, only to sink onto the sofa next to Tony and kick his feet up onto the sturdy coffee table. "You leaving?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"Nah." He fell silent, then: "This isn't the end, Boss.

He reached for the television remote and clicked over to ZNN. Hamas was firing rockets on southern Israel. The fine-featured reporter was dwarfed by his combat helmet and flack jacket. "No," he acquiesced slowly. "DiNozzo, this is only the beginning."


	16. If I Am Not For Myself

____**Kind, sweet, gentle readers, I have beaten my head on this thing for too many long nights, all because I just want it to be perfect. I want to be as generous with you as you are with me. Many thanks, as always, to Amilyn and Chemmie.**

. . . .**  
**

Im___ ein ani li, mi li?_

___U'kh'she'ani le'atzmi, mah ani? _

___V'im lo 'akhshav, eimatai?_

_(If I am not for myself, then who will be?_

_And when I am for myself, then what am I?_

_And if not now, then when?)_

_ -Hillel the Elder_

_. . . ._

"Baby?" Tony sighed in the darkened bedroom. "You wanna get up for a little bit? Maybe have a bite to eat?" He was gentle—excruciatingly so—but Ziva shrank away from him like he was about to deal her a blow. He almost burst into tears. "Zi, aren't you hungry? You haven't eaten since last night. It's almost four." She remained motionless—a barely-detectable lump under the heavy duvet.

Sara was tucked in beside her. She watched him thoughtfully, thumb in her mouth, until he went to stroke Ziva's hair away from her face. "Don't, Tony," she whispered. "That hurts her."

He gave her a small smile. "I know, Bug, but it's important that she eats the way it's important for you to eat; it will help her get better. Wha'd'ya say, Zi? You liked the soup McGee made. How about a little more?"

Again, Ziva didn't budge. Sara patted her shoulder and shushed. "No, Tony," she said again.

He couldn't respond right away; tears burned behind his eyes, tightened his chest, raised the short hairs on the back of his neck. He was desperate to break down but couldn't with Sara's big, grey eyes on him.

"Tony?" she asked, worried.

"I'm ok, Bug," he rasped. He considered lying, but her sweet, open face changed his mind. "I'm sad that Ziva is feeling so bad. I'm sad that I can't help her."

Sara nodded. Her eyes grew wet, too. She reached for him and he scooped her up, resting his cheek on her curls. Her cast made her sweat, especially in Ziva's warm apartment, so she smelled a bit sour, like bread dough rising in a warm kitchen.

"You need a bath," he said, chuckling a little.

"Yeah. Later."

She let him hold her until Gibbs poked his head into the bedroom and held Ziva's cellphone out to him. "It's for Ziver," he said softly. "You should take it."

He traded Sara for the phone and put it to his ear, stepping out of the bedroom and into the bright hallway. "Ziva David's phone," he greeted cautiously.

The voice on the other end stammered a bit. "My name is Romi David. I am Ziva's uncle. Is she available? I'd like to speak to her."

Anger climbed upon Tony's shoulders; the weight was welcome. "She isn't available now or ever," he snapped. "And _uncle_ who? Ziva doesn't have an uncle. Not one that should be calling her right now, anyway."

"Please don't hang up," the man pleaded. "I am Eli David's brother. Please, let me speak to Ziva."

"Eli David's _brother_? She doesn't need anyone like Eli around her right now. And do you want to know why?"

The man sighed. "I have my suspicions."

"Suspicions? _Your brother_ nearly beat his daughter to death. How many times is that now? Five? Ten? A hundred? Has he ruptured her eardrum before? Broken her ribs? Her skull? Her face? Has he knocked her teeth out and broken her jaw? Did he do it in front of you?"

The man on the other end sighed again and began to cry. "I could not protect her. I tried. Please believe me—I _tried_."

Gasoline had been thrown on the fire. "Where were you?" Tony demanded. "Where were you when Eli was beating the piss out of his daughter? Where were you when he was trying to kick her face in and drag her on a plane? Where were you when he sent her on any one of those suicide missions? Huh, Uncle Romi? _Where were you_?"

He had been shouting loud enough to bring Gibbs to the door with Sara in his arms. She was watching him with cool green eyes.

"I am willing to admit that I failed," the man said tearfully. "And I can tell you very much want what's best for her. I very much want that, also. May I speak to her, please?"

"No. You can't. She can't talk. Her jaw is broken. Call back when she's feeling better."

"May I come see her?" he blurted. "Please? I am in the US now, in New York. It is an easy trip to Maryland from here. Please say my wife and I can come. Please. I need to beg forgiveness."

He almost said no. He almost hung up the phone and flung it against the wall, but Ziva lurched out of the bedroom and let her hair fall over her eyes. She peered through it, questioning him. Gibbs passed her the tablet computer Abby and Tim bought for her—a little sorry-you-can't-talk present—and she typed _who_?

"Some guy who says he's your uncle."

_Romi?_

"Yeah. He's in New York. Said he wants to visit you."

_Yes._

He cradled the mobile against his chest. "You _want_ him to come? After all of _this_, Zi?"

_Yes_.

He put it to his ear again. "You still there?"

"Yes," he said. "Have you changed your mind?"

"I haven't," Tony said sharply. "But Ziva wants you to come."

"I will come tomorrow," he said urgently. "I will leave Manhattan after a business brunch and be there by early afternoon. Is that all right?"

"Early afternoon?" he parroted to Ziva.

She gave a tiny nod and winced, one hand finding the bandage over her ear.

"She's fine with that. I won't wake her if she's resting when you get here."

"That is fine," Romi breathed. "I wouldn't expect you to. What is your name, sir?"

Something about the _sir_ loosened the knot in Tony's chest. "My name is Tony DiNozzo," he said slowly. "I'm Ziva's fiancé."

"Thank you for protecting my niece, Mr. DiNozzo," he said lowly. "I pray you may do so forever. I will be traveling with my wife. We will call ten minutes before we arrive."

"Ok," he agreed tentatively. "Bye." He hung up with a click. Gibbs and Sara had gone but Ziva stood before him. She had one hand on the wall for balance. "He's coming tomorrow," he said quietly, gauging her for a response. "You sure you're up for that?"

She tapped something quickly on the tablet before staggering back into the bedroom. He watched her go, mouth pulled down in sadness, before turning it over in his hands. _No_, the screen read. _Not ready, but need. So alone._

. . . .

Ziva was back in bed before nine, curled like an apostrophe around her broken ribs. It was terribly dark—Tony had pulled the shade on the streetlight below her window—but she could not muster the energy to turn on the tiny bedside lamp. It was a small thing, blocky and dim, purchased strictly to keep the shadows at bay. It worked only if it was on; she could not command her arm to rise.

She knew Tony and Gibbs moved around beyond her closed door, though she couldn't hear them. Her head was cottony, floating above the junction of her shoulders like a small, dark balloon. Sound happened if she saw it. Sight would return or it wouldn't; she couldn't bring herself to care. Her father was dead in the ground; with his death he'd taken her country, her language, and her family. Without a tribe she was nothing but a few ragged bones and a broken mouth.

The door creaked open. A rectangle of light appeared. Gibbs' familiar scent wafted around and then the mattress sagged behind her. The light on Tony's side of the bed clicked on. She turned just enough to see his face.

"Sar wants to be with you," he said softly. "I'll come get her when she falls asleep." She didn't budge. He put his hand beneath hers. "Squeeze if that's ok, Ziver." She squeezed. He kissed her hairline, said something she couldn't quite make out, and left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Sara put her hand on the splint on Ziva's broken wrist. Her voice was shrill enough that she could hear. "Zeeba?" She turned, wincing. "S'ok, Zeeba," she sang. "S'ok. You're ok." She patted her leg. "You're ok," she finished softly. "Daddy is here. Him can be your daddy. Don't cry anymore."

_Be her daddy_? Ziva had nearly gotten Sara killed. She seriously doubted Gibbs would want to claim her for his own.

"Be ok, Zeeba," Sara crooned again, eyes sliding closed. She had to be exhausted. Maybe Ziva was, too. Maybe she could sleep through the coming weeks. Sleep until she could stand as straight as her father demanded. Sleep until she could utter _yes, Papa_ the way he liked. Was it pride that shone in his eyes that once, when she was seven and had cleaned the M16 in his closet all by herself? She'd oiled it so, so carefully and he'd reserved a spot next to him at the dinner table just for her.

But she failed more often than not. She stumbled and fell, she dropped things, broke them, forgot them, made a fool of herself. She made a mockery of her country. She embarrassed her father. And then she'd sent him to his grave with her mistakes.

Perhaps an hour ticked by. Sara fell asleep. Gibbs retrieved her and the bedroom grew cold. She wanted to call out, to ask Gibbs to bring his daughter back, to let her small body take up space in Ziva's sore heart. The living room lights turned off one by one and then Tony was sliding through the bedroom door. He padded over to her and crouched, holding out the medicine syringe. She shrugged off his help and sat up on her own, relishing how pain blossomed and spread across her chest. She deserved all of it and more.

"Here," he said quietly. She tucked the tube back in her cheek—her stupid, broken lips wouldn't close around anything—and swallowed with a slurp.

He helped her slide deeper beneath the blankets. She flinched; she had no right to comfort, no right to the people who rearranged their lives to care for her. And now Uncle Romi was coming to visit. He had to leave the comfort of his vineyard in the Golan because she had killed his brother with her stupidity and gracelessness. Shame burned in her again. She turned to face the wall and stayed that way.

. . . .

Romi David knocked on Ziva's apartment door nine minutes and fourteen seconds after hanging up the phone. There was the slide of the chain lock and then a man with a military haircut was before him. He fumbled, intimidated. This man's gaze was _fierce_.

"I am Romi David, Ziva's uncle," he said slowly. "Do I have the correct address?"

The man said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed him entry. Ayelet followed behind, clutching purple potted cyclamen and a few shopping bags. An awkward silence fell as Romi took in just how many people were crowded in his niece's small apartment; besides the man who had opened a door, there were two young people who looked more like tall children than adults.

"I'm Abby Sciuto," the woman said, tottering forward on a pair of impossible boots. "And this is Tim McGee. We're Ziva's friends. Tony is helping her in the other room. They'll be out in a minute." She knotted her long hands together—he noticed calluses that indicated she was a hard worker—and motioned with them to the man who'd answered the door. "And that's Gibbs. He's our…he's a good friend and mentor to all of us." Her smile was a flash of red and white among the rich purples and browns of Ziva's décor. "But he can be…protective. We're all still reeling from what happened."

Romi returned her smile and held out a crate. "I am, too," he admitted. "This is wine from my vineyard. It is for all of you. Perhaps we can share some later."

Tim stepped forward and took it from him. "Thank you. Ziva probably shouldn't have any but I don't think she'll be upset if we enjoy a little without her."

Ayelet put the plant on the kitchen windowsill. "I hope you don't mind us stopping by," she said nervously. "We couldn't go back to Israel without seeing her."

The silence that fell was heavy with regret. Tim pushed a glass of sparkling water into Romi's hand. He drank deeply, feeling many eyes on him. "I know what you must think of us," he said softly.

"No ya don't," Gibbs said softly. "You wouldn't be here if you did."

Ayelet put her hand on Romi's arm. "Mr. Gibbs," she began. "I do not know how to make you believe us; we tried to keep Ziva safe. A man with power such as Eli operates above law, above custom, and above family. We love her. We did everything we thought we could for her."

Tim cleared his throat. "Maybe you should all have a seat. Abby and I will bring out some snacks. Can we make coffee for anyone?"

Further silence. Only Gibbs accepted the offer with a nod. Romi looked down at his wife, whose eyes widened at something just beyond his elbow. She made a small noise, an _ooh_ of shock and dismay, and stepped around him.

He'd expected terrible; Ziva looked worse. Her face was swollen beyond recognition. Her right eye was a mere slit in a sea of bruises, the left covered by an aluminum eye shield and surgical tape. Gauze around her head held a protective cover over her left ear. Her lips were puffy and discolored. She couldn't close them properly; he could see an acrylic splint between her teeth.

Ayelet touched Ziva's free hand. "Zivaleh?" she asked. "Zivi? _Motek_, it's Doda Ayelet. Can you see me?"

She gave a tiny nod. Her gaze flickered between them—Romi, his wife, Gibbs—and then her free hand came up over her mouth and she began to cry tiny, stifled sobs. Romi took stepped closer, expecting her to flee or lash out. She did neither. Her tears grew louder, more desperate. Another brought him up in front of her. He held out his hands, uncertain; Ziva laid her head upon his chest and cried harder still. He embraced her as though he were not holding a person but an armful of spun glass.

Tony was still supporting her by the arm. He made a face at their proximity but didn't pull away. "Hold on to her. She has bad vertigo."

Romi shifted closer yet. Ziva clutched him with her good hand and cried great, hitching sobs against his overcoat.

Ayelet put her hand on the back of Ziva's neck. "She is feverish," she said tightly, giving him a sharp look. She wheeled on Tony, eyes blazing. "When was her last dose of pain medication? I'm a hundred percent certain she needs more _now_."

Tim gathered the chart from the counter. "She's due in an hour," he stammered. "But I'm sure we could give it now. Percocet contains acetaminophen—that's a fever reducer."

Ziva's sobs were tapering but almost all of her bodyweight rested against Romi's chest. He ducked his head to speak softly in her good ear. "Zivaleh," he said gently. "You are going back to bed. There is no need for you to sit on the couch and visit with us. Doda Ayelet and I are going to tuck you in nicely and make sure you're not hurting." She gave a tiny nod and turned her head to take the proffered meds.

Ayelet clucked and stroked Ziva's cheek. "My poor Zivaleh. Dod Romi and Tony will take you to your room while I get a few things I brought for you, ok?"

Ziva nodded again. Together they ushered her to the dark, slightly overheated bedroom. Tony didn't adjust the shades. "She needs to sit for a second before she can lie down," he said, still holding her hand. "Changes in position make her dizzy."

Romi crouched between her knees and took her free hand in both of his. "Doda Ayelet will come back and we will make sure you are comfortable. Yes, Ziva?" She nodded, sniffling, and squeezed his hand. He beamed at her. "That's my good girl. We have missed you very much, Zivaleh. We have missed your visits and your laughter and your constant mischief." A tiny light flickered in her swollen face. He grew a tiny bit lighter, happier. "I miss the sound of your little running feet in my hotel lobby. I miss when you would bound up to the guests and offer them your cookies. Do you remember that Zivaleh?"

She squeezed his hand again and reached for a pillow. Tony helped her pull her legs onto the mattress. "You're ok," he said, bringing the heavy duvet up over her shoulders. "She likes to be warm," he explained unnecessarily.

"Always," Romi agreed. He knew it to be the truth. It had nothing to do with the long sleeves Eli always made her wear.

Ayelet came in with the blanket they'd bought for Ziva's infant layette, which she spread over her shoulders. It had been soft to begin with; years of washing rendered it silky and supple.

"Remember this, _motek_?" she asked softly. She gave a tiny nod against the pillow. Out of a _Zabar's_ shopping bag came a soft stuffed lamb, gone grey from so much handling. "And Tully. Here, Zivaleh. Now you may sleep as always." She stroked her hair, mindful of the skull fracture.

"Ziva," Romi said gently, gone to one knee before her. "I came here today to do many things: to pay a shiva call, to meet the man who loves you, and to beg for your forgiveness. Two of those things are done. The third is so much harder. We did not do enough, _motek_, to keep you safe. I am sorry. Doda Ayelet is sorry. Do you forgive us?"

Tony handed her the tablet and she typed shakily. _Nothing to forgive. I love you_.

"Perhaps we could have done more," he considered. "You were with us often, Ziva. We tried to give you the life you deserved." The light in her eyes went out, snuffed by what he was about to say. "But my brother Eli is not a generous man. He was not interested in a life of joy. I am sorry I could not fight him for you."

She pointed again at the tablet. _I love you_, she underlined with one finger.

"We love you, too," Ayelet said softly.

Ziva began to drift off. Romi kissed her head above the tape that secured the eye patch. "_Lishon_, Zivaleh. We will be here when you wake."

Tony smoothed the baby blanket over her shoulders. "I usually stay until she's out."

Romi heard what he wasn't saying. He and Ayelet filed numbly out of the bedroom. Tim and Abby puttered in the kitchen and Gibbs was on the couch, holding a tiny child in his arms.

"Who is this?" Ayelet asked softly.

He glowered at them but his blue eyes no longer held the razor's edge. "This is my daughter, Sara."

"What a tiny thing," she breathed. "And so beautiful. She reminds me of Ziva at that age. All those curls…"

The child put her head on her father's shoulder and her thumb in her mouth. Gibbs ran his fingers through her hair. "She usually sleeps for another hour."

"How old is she?"

"Five," he answered blithely.

Ayelet gasped. "I thought you were going to say two, maybe two-and-a-half. What a _k'tana_. How were her legs hurt?"

He lifted the hem of her dress to show off the whole cast. "Sara has a genetic disease that makes her bones very small and fragile. She had surgery a month ago to correct hip dysplasia. She'll be in a spica for another month."

Romi nodded, feeling vaguely ill. "You know about fragile little girls, Mr. Gibbs."

He patted his daughter's diapered bottom. "Maybe I do."

"But you cannot understand how Ziva would mourn the father who brutalized her."

"Eli David wasn't her father," he said pointedly. His blue eyes were steady.

The strange sickness became acute nausea. "Mr. Gibbs—" He turned to find his wife, but she had disappeared to the kitchen, no doubt. He could smell the vinegar she used for salad dressing.

"Get your ass in there and tell her," he warned, still patting Sara. "And if she says so, you are to leave and never come back. Am I clear?"

"Understood." The word _sir_ dangled on his lips. His chukkas carried him back into the gloomy bedroom, where Tony sat on the floor by the bed, obviously listening to Ziva's breathing. "I need to speak to her," he said without overture.

Tony's face soured. "She's almost asleep."

"It is urgent, Mr. DiNozzo."

His eyes narrowed. He shook Ziva's hand. "Zi? I'm sorry, baby, but Uncle Romi wants to speak to you. He says it's important. Can you wake up for a second?" She sniffed and winced. He dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cotton ball and moved aside.

Romi crouched at the bedside, took her hand, and waited for her to look at him. "Ziva, I came here to apologize and I came here to…" he paused to swallow and wipe his eyes. "I came her to tell you…I waited and waited, Ziva. I had to. Eli…Eli was a cruel man. His war was a holy one and he sacrificed everyone to it—Rivka, Ari, Tali. Our parents. Our faith. But…but not everything he tried to sacrifice was his." She stared at him, bruised into silence. "He took things from others. He stole. He stole objects, people, children. You did not belong to him, Ziva. Do you understand?"

She nodded mutely, good eye dark and blinking in her broken face.

"We could have given you a good life. A _happy _life. But Eli hated happiness the way he hated enemies of Israel. The way he hated what your mother and I did." She blinked and tightened her small hand around his very large one. "Your mother was a beautiful woman—intelligent, artistic, and insatiable. He punished her for that. He punished Doda Ayelet and me for that, and he punished _you_ for that. I am sorry we did not stop him."

She held out her hand to Tony, who furnished her with the tablet. _You could not_, she tapped, squinting.

"Not after he proved to be so dangerous," he acquiesced. "We worried he would kill you."

"He tried," Tony interjected.

Romi had to swallow his tears. "I thought her being in the US would keep her safe. To Mossad, a man like Eli is a hero. Without an agency, he is simply another monster. By the time I learned he'd been fired it was too late; he was already on a plane. I am so sorry."

Ziva pushed the tablet under his nose. _Forgive you_.

His heart pounded lighter and faster. "You do? You are certain?"

_Yes._

He exhaled. Relief stole his words. "I cannot be your papa, Zivaleh_. _But I, as not your father but simply your uncle—your Dod Romi—would like a place in your life. May I have that?" She stared, asking him to go on. "I want to know you the way I knew you when you were small. I want to visit with you and share meals and know the people in your life. You have made a _mishpasha_ here. I want to know them. Is that all right?"

_Yes_.

He nodded. "You may set the parameters. We will not intrude, nor will we visit without permission. _But_, Zivaleh, you will need to come back to Israel when you are well; you are the sole executor of your father's estate. Will you come to us, then? Will you come to Katzrin and bring Tony to see your old _dod _and _doda? _

He thought he saw a smile grace her swollen lips. _Yes_ she jabbed.

"You are so sleepy. _Lach lishon ach'shin, ken?"_

_Yes_, she designed again, lazily.

"I'll stay," Tony whispered. His gaze was sharp but he stuck out his hand—a rough but veritable olive branch.

Romi shook it, then straightened the small blanket over her shoulders and moved the lamb up under her chin. Ziva blinked, frowned, and reached under her pillow. Out came a small wooden toy. She handed it to him and pointed at the door. He put it in his shirt pocket and rose, knees popping. "She has always known when she wants to sleep. _Laila tov_, Zivaleh. May you have only good dreams."

. . . .

Ayelet shook out her short, blonde curls and pulled the cover off a container of stuffed grape leaves. She put a cocktail fork in the center. "I know I said this before," she said, smiling, "But Sara truly reminds me of Ziva."

Gibbs glanced down at Sara, snug in the carrier, the green blanket wrapped around her skinny shoulders. She returned his gaze and gave him her funny, crooked smile. Ayelet was trying to open him up. He decided to take the bait. "How so?"

"Those eyes."

He smirked; was this lady nuts? Ziva's eyes were soft brown—golden in the right light; Sara's green-grey. "That wasn't a similarity that crossed my mind," he replied honestly.

"Not the _color_," she countered. "The shape, the size, and the…I don't know the English word. But there is something that draws you in. An…_understanding_."

"Sara is very close with your niece," he said carefully.

"It's not hard to be. I fell in love with Ziva the second I laid eyes on her. Would you like to see photographs?"

Saying no wasn't an option. She dug a small, worn box out of a shopping bag and opened it. "I don't have many," she said apologetically. "But look. This was the day…the day I met Ziva."

She held out a picture of herself cradling a tiny, red-faced newborn. "See her hair? People called her the Eskimo baby because it was so black. She was just a week old here." She looked up at him with big, wet, blue eyes. "I wanted her," she said firmly. "Eli was so angry when Rivka got pregnant that he vowed to sell the baby. She called us sobbing, asking us to take her. I was thrilled. I made our bedroom closet into a nursery and Eli brought her to us in the first week."

She flipped through a few photos. He noticed a concentration of them in the early months—pictures of her in a bassinette, on a blanket in the grass, being carried by Romi through a maze of grapevines. She paused at one of Ziva being held out to guests across a reception desk. The look on Ayelet's face was one of mother's pride.

"Ziva brought me fullness in a way I'd never known," she reminisced. "She completed us." She rolled her eyes; her smile turned rueful. "She had colic and she cried and she wouldn't feed easily for the first few weeks, but I was still so happy. And look—look at the resemblance." She held out a photo taken a few months later. In it, Romi held a cluster of grapes of up to Ziva's face; she studied them with an infant's consternation. "Do you see how she looks like him?" she begged. Gibbs was stunned; Ziva was Romi's double, right down to the deep widow's peak and small mouth.

Gibbs held his own daughter closer. "I saw that the minute you walked through that door." He'd seen something else, too—the look of a father come to do penance.

"Those months were so good," Ayelet breathed. "I should've known it wouldn't last. Eli took her back a week after that picture was taken. We'd…we'd bonded. I cried and cried, Gibbs. I never cried like that before. Not when my city was bombed by Lebanon, not when my brother died in the war, not when I learned of Romi's dalliance with Rivka." She looked coolly away. "We did not see her again for many months."

"But you _did_ see her."

"Yes. Eli would bring her to us and she would spend time at our home. We live on our vineyard in Katzrin. We also have an inn and a small working farm on our property, where Romi and one of his friends raised Egyptian Arabians. Horses. Warm-bloods. Unpredictable animals. It goes without saying that Ziva loved them."

He nodded, jaw tight. "You had to have known he was hurting her."

"Of course we did. He would send her to us black and blue and a few weeks later we would give him back a happy, healthy child."

He fought the urge to shout and lost. "Why didn't you do anything about it?"

Silence followed. Sara gave a shuddery sigh and buried her face in her father's polo shirt. He shushed her.

Ayelet clucked. "I've frightened your daughter," she said remorsefully. "I am very sorry; I didn't know she was listening."

"She's perceptive. And you didn't answer my question."

"What could we do? Eli was powerful by that point—powerful and corrupt. We kept offering to take her but he said no. He was grooming her, molding her. It was cruel." She pressed her lips together. "She was a _baby_, Gibbs."

He put both hands on his daughter's back. "You couldn't go to the authorities?"

She gave him a disdainful look. "Social services in Israel are for children who are missing limbs and eyes and families; not little girls with heavy-handed papas."

Sara sniffed and he palmed her head. "You're ok," he murmured. "Daddy's here, baby girl. You're safe."

"We tried," Ayalet said lowly. "We offered him money, property, shares in our company, stocks. Our home is in disputed territory, Gibbs; we offered to house an informant for him, then an operative. He always refused. Eventually we reconciled ourselves to the fact that seeing Ziva was enough, that we could try to undo some of the damage he was doing at home. And it worked. She would be a little standoffish when she first arrived—a little afraid, perhaps—but then she would adjust and she was just _Ziva_. She was a bright, loving, funny… a bit of an imp, I'd have to say, and a climber. See what happened at Pesach when we hid the afikomen?"

She held out a photo of Ziva, age two, dressed in sweet pink pajamas and clinging to the top of an old grandfather clock. She'd scaled it, evidently, and was lifting a package from between the decorative moldings.

The image of tiny, tenacious Ziva made anger boiled in his gut again. "You let Eli hurt her."

She leveled her own blue eyes with his. "And had we tried to stop him he would've killed her."

Sara began to whimper. He filled a sip-cup with milk from the refrigerator and sat on the sofa, unstrapping the carrier and turning her to recline in his arms. She drank with tiny gulps, eyes roving, a fistful of his shirt clenched tight in her hand.

Ayelet watched, frowning. "She is not a typical five-year-old, is she?"

He shifted, cursing the heavy spica cast. "Sara has some developmental delays. Surgery set her back a little more."

"Does she speak?"

He smirked. "Oh yeah."

"Are we scaring her? Is that why she's so quiet?"

"No, she's just…taking it all in. Right, sweet pea?"

She pushed the cup aside. "Yeah. Zeeba sleeping?"

"Maybe."

She pointed at the door. "I wanna go in with her."

"Nope. She's having some quiet time with Tony and Uncle Romi."

"_Dod_ Romi," she corrected.

Ayelet chuckled. "I stand corrected; she speaks very well. Saraleh, would you like to see some pictures of Ziva from when she was small like you?"

Her little face was serious. "Did she have a big cast?"

"Actually," she drawled, rifling, "She did. Not as big as yours, but still big." She handed over a photo of Ziva at Sara's age, lying in bed with her leg in old-fashioned plaster of Paris. She looked miserable—her face pale and splotchy from crying—and had her thumb in her mouth.

"Ziva fell off a horse and broke her leg. She didn't make a sound even though the pain had to be terrible. I made her sleep on a cot in our room because I was worried she would need us and we wouldn't hear. She was sad and it hurt but she got better fast and was running around before we knew it."

Sara held the picture close to her face. "She got better," she said resolutely.

"Yes. She wanted to ride that horse and run around all over."

"I don't run," Sara said. She handed the photo back. "You got more?"

Gibbs adjusted a pillow under her legs. "You'll run when you're cast comes off."

She ignored him. "C'n I see more?"

Ayelet held out another. "Here's Ziva playing with the baby chicks. Our hen laid eggs and then they hatched. See?"

Sara waved the photo in Gibbs' face. "Zeeba had a farm like me, Daddy!"

"She has a set of animals my father carved for her out of scrap lumber," he explained. "Rarely plays with anything else."

Ayelet smiled. "Ziva's favorite toy was a stuffed lamb named Tully. He used to be white. She took him everywhere with her."

Sara blinked. "Not home. She didn't want her daddy to taking him."

"No," she echoed, shocked. "I suppose she didn't." She gave Gibbs a bewildered look. "She used to hide Tully around the house because she was afraid he would get stolen. We would find him everywhere—in the laundry, in the barn, in the wine bottling room, in the kitchen cabinets. One day Romi went down to the wine cellar to get some wine for a guest and out came Tully with the bottle, way high up in the rack. I will never know how she got it in there—there was nothing to climb and no one to reach it for her."

Gibbs smiled down at his daughter; she was clearly unimpressed. "Zeeba is tricky," she said, shrugging. "She didn't cry."

"When?" he asked needlessly.

"When her daddy hurted her by my room. She didn't cry. She didn't hit, either. She said _no, papa_ and that was it. And then he tooked her away."

Ayelet closed her eyes, fighting tears. "Ziva is very strong and very brave," she warbled.

"Yeah," Sara added, fading out.

Gibbs beckoned Abby. "Take her," he said. "She fresh air."

"Lambykins!" she cheered, carrying her into the guest room, "Wanna go for a walk with Tim and me? We'll get you a cookie at Coffee Roasters."

"Daddy doesn't want me to hear about Zeeba," she said witheringly. "But a cookie is good. We can go. I need a dress and crazylegs and socks and my soft shoes. And a coat. And my hat. And mittens. And a poppin."

"She just learned to dress herself," Gibbs clarified. "She's into publicizing everything she needs." Ayelet just laughed and returned Sara's wave.

Abby buckled her into the jogger. "Say _bye, Daddy_! _Bye, Doda Ayelet!_"

"Bye," she parroted happily, then threw her hands over her face and wailed. "My poppins! I lost them!"

Romi came out of the bedroom having obviously been crying. "A poppin?" he asked. He was a large man with a booming voice but his demeanor was gentle, even delicate. "Would you mean this?" He handed her one of her beloved penguins.

Sara stopped crying immediately and grinned. "Thanks. I _told _you Zeeba would finding them, Daddy."

Abby swung the jogger around and they left. Gibbs could hear her making racecar noises as she pushed the stroller to the elevator.

Romi cleared his throat. "Should we open a bottle of wine? Share a few _l'chaim_s?"

Glasses of syrah were passed around. Tony joined them, tumbling onto the sofa next to Gibbs and kicking his sneakers up onto the coffee table. "She's _still _not sleeping. I don't know that she will. I told her I'd check back in ten."

"Ziva only sleeps when she wants to," Romi said, smiling a little. "If we tried to put her to bed too early she would lie awake for hours and sing." His smile faded and he looked deliberately at Gibbs and Tony. "You and your agency saved her from Eli."

"No we didn't," Gibbs interrupted, thinking of Saleem Ullman and his filthy, foul-smelling barracks.

"Yes, you did," Romi refuted. There was a tiny flash of danger in his eyes. "She had no home when she came to you. She was constantly out on missions, fulfilling her father's orders, protecting her country, and receiving little or no recognition for it. She was a veritable refugee and then she met you. But you accepted her and slowly she became the Ziva we'd known, rather than the one Eli created." He paused to swallow a mouthful of wine with a brief Hebrew blessing. "Thank you for that. Thank you for loving her the way we were never allowed." He raised his glass. "_L'chaim_."

They toasted and drank. Sadness replaced the anger churning Gibbs' gut. He sat back against the cushions, but Ziva's appearance in the bedroom doorway snapped him back to attention. She listed down the hallway, leaning on the walls.

Ayelet went to her, looping an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the sofa. "Sit, _motek_. You should not be up when you are so woozy." She gave Romi a soft command in Hebrew and he disappeared into the bedroom, only to reappear with Ziva's blanket and soft sheep. The blanket went over her lap; the lamb was stuffed between her and the arm of the sofa.

Ziva regarded everyone warily for a second and handed the tablet over to Ayelet. She had to use a large font; Gibbs could read it from where he sat. _I defied my father_.

He propped his elbows on his knees and let his hands dangle. "He shouldn't have been giving your orders, Ziver."

_Sara could have been killed_.

"She wasn't," he said firmly.

She brushed her fingers over her lips, good eye roving. _Innocent people died_, she typed, holding it out to all of them.

"Stop this, Zivaleh," Romi said evenly.

She glared at him and jabbed harder at the tablet. _I am like Eli_.

"You are not," Ayelet contradicted. "Look at the letters you wrote me."

_You kept them? _ she typed. _You did not reply. I thought…_

"Of course I kept them. And I _did_ reply. Eli must have destroyed them before they got to you. Look at the happy child in these photographs. Look at the people around you. These are not things you have becauseof Eli; these are things you have in spite of him."

She swallowed noisily and eased herself back against the cushion. Ayelet sat next to her and laced their fingers together. "Your life has not been without meaning or value," she said quietly. "But I can understand how you may feel that way right now. It will pass with time and a lot of love." She cast glances at Gibbs and Tony.

Romi poured a tablespoon of wine into a feeding syringe and handed it to her. "Here, Zivaleh. Have a _l'chaim_ with us before you cry again." He raised his own glass. "To family."

Ziva slurped; everyone else drank. Ayelet put her hand on the back of her neck again. "You are still feverish, Zivi."

Tony jumped up. "Doc says her immune system would probably bottom out after all the stress. Unless her temp goes over one-oh-two or comes with vomiting we're to hang at home and watch Bond films." He winked and handed Ziva a syringe of warm broth. "I might've made up that last part."

"I think Zivaleh has had enough spying and explosions. Perhaps it is time for some romantic comedy."

"Family films," Romi added. "Musicals."

Gibbs rose and gave Ziva a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. He slapped Romi on the shoulder. "I think everyone's hungry. Help me get dinner ready."

The kitchen was too small for two grown men to share comfortably, but Romi knew enough to let Gibbs take the lead. Shewarma and pita were warmed in the oven. The leftover grape leaves and salad were taken from the refrigerator and lined up with Marine precision on the granite peninsula. Gibbs arranged bottles of seltzer, wine, soda and plastic cups next to the sink before he decided to speak.

"She's letting you stay."

Romi stacked plates next to the salads. "Ziva forgives me."

"You made a deal with her."

"I do not _deal_, Gibbs; I simply gave her the authority she earned."

"I was shocked as hell when she didn't throw your asses out."

He paused. "Even I do not have the power of forgiveness that Ziva has."

Gibbs opened another bottle of syrah. "Guilt is a bitch, isn't it?"

Romi laid out flatware in neat piles and stood to his full height. He was a mountain of a man, taller than Eli, but far less inclined to use his size for intimidation. "It has been twenty-seven years since the first time I saw my brother strike my daughter. Her tears will burn in my heart forever."

A hollow formed in Gibbs' chest, but commotion in the outer hall meant Sara was home. He wrenched the front door open and scooped her out of the stroller, pressing insistent kisses to her cheeks. "Hi, baby," he cooed.

She hugged his neck tightly. "Daddy! I missed you. I missed Zeeba, too. Is she awake? I want to seeing her." She made a face. "Take this off," she ordered, pulling at her coat. "M'hot."

He stripped her down to her diaper and plopped her in the beanbag at Ziva's feet. She smiled, but it faded and she pointed, brows drawn. "Zeeba is sore."

"Yep," Gibbs agreed. "She can have more medicine later."

"No," she protested. "She's sore. She needs the soft stuff in her mouth."

"Nothing goes in Ziva's mouth but a feeding tube," Tony said firmly. "And special rinse twice a day to keep her teeth clean."

Sara grumbled and crossed her arms. "Sore."

Ayelet tipped Ziva's chin toward her, frowning. She carefully prodded the inside of her lips and clucked. "She's right. Ziva's appliance is leaving sores in her mouth. What do we do for them?"

Tony pawed through the hospital literature and muttered under his breath. "There's gotta be something in here," he complained.

Abby pulled a small tin from her gigantic purse. "Didn't you have braces, Tony?"

"No," he snarked. "I was born with perfect teeth."

Ayelet put wax on the offending hinge. "A barbaric thing, that splint. When will she not need it any longer?"

"In three months," Tony sighed.

She made a face. "Oy, my Zivaleh. You will have to have the patience of Job."

Romi lifted Sara out of the beanbag; she looked like a toy in his meaty arms. "Job taught us how to mourn," he said, studying her little face, then Ziva's battered one. "But it takes precious daughters to teach us how to rejoice. Come, everyone; the meal is served."


	17. Tear In Your Hand

__**Hi. Thank you. I'm sorry. Yes-I'm still reeling, too. (*cough, 'Shabbat Shalom')**

**Warning: mild language and possible *T*. Please take care of yourself. **

**Thanks: Amilyn, Chemmie, Girleffect.**

**. . . .**

Maybe_ they're just pieces of me you've never seen._

_-Tori Amos, "Tear In Your Hand."_

Dod Romi was a special man who owned a special farm where he made wine for the whole wide world. But he wasn't just a wine-making-man he was also a kind man and a happy man and a gentle man. And Doda Ayelet was like Ziva's mommy, all holding her and being calm and soft like _shhhhhh. _Ziva was being just a little kid because she was so sad. The saddest person ever, maybe. Her sadness made Sara itch on her big scar even though it went all the way down in her cast. She couldn't get her hand down there to scratch.

The food from New York was good. She ate meat and cucumber and soft warm circle-bread. Dod Romi thought she should try some white dip and she did because it looked like creamy cheese, but it _wasn't_ cheese it was something grainy and spicy and sour. She spat it out.

Daddy said, _Geez Sar, how about a warning_, but he wasn't mad at all.

Dod Romi only laughed and said _Ayelet always made the t'chineh too spicy for the children because that was how Ziva liked it_.

And Tony said something about how Ziva liked _anything_ spicy and Ayelet just laughed and patted Ziva's good cheek like she was small.

Sara was small. Everyone said that. Sophie was her new friend at school. She was Sara's first friend _ever_ and she was her _best_ friend and they played animals and water table and roly-poly together. Sophie had blonde hair that she wore in a ponytail every day. She was also _four, _which was younger than Sara, but she was way, way taller even though her arms and legs were short and curvy. And Sophie had a big cast once, too, but she didn't need it any more so they cut it off with the loud saw and now she ran around like any old kid. Sara didn't want to run. She didn't even want to sit all the way up in her special seat to eat dinner.

"Can I get down now please, Daddy?" she asked politely. Manners made the man. Or girl.

He made a frown-face. "You barely ate anything, Sar. Two more bites of meat and two more of salad. You can do it."

She could do it but she didn't want to. "No, thank you."

"Sara."

She huffed and picked up her fork. "Fine."

Dod Romi chuckled a soft, rumbly noise. "You're a bit of a _vildeh chayeh_, aren't you? A wild thing?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes I have big fits 'cause I don't know my words."

"A tantrum? From you? Who knew someone so small could be so noisy?"

"I am," she said proudly because it was true and because she liked when someone picked her up and gave a cuddle. "I can be very noisy and bad but I stay with Daddy anyway and he doesn't get mad at me. We just have quiet time."

"Of course you will stay with your daddy. He loves you very much. You are very precious, Sara. Do you know what that means?"

Hm. "Cute?" she guessed.

He laughed a bigger laugh. "You _are_ very cute, but _precious _means that you are worth more than anything in the world. More than diamonds, more than wine, more than countries or vaults full of gold money. You are the most precious thing your father has. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said lowly. Ziva's sadness got her again in the big scar and her eyes got wet. She needed a hug. "I understand."

Ziva was so sad that her whole self was swaying on the sofa cushion. She was so sad that her head went down and her shoulders shook, but Sara breathed out heavy when Dod Romi got up from his spot on the floor and went to her and took her lumpy, blue-black face in his great big hands and went _shhhhh_.

He sat next to her. She leaned on him, crying. "Zivaleh," he said in a talking-to-babies voice. "You are _my _precious thing. You know that." And then he sang a song in his language about fathers and daughters and an old woman who lived in the woods. Everyone got quiet while he sang except for Ziva, who was still sniffling and sad. When he finished, Abby and Tim put their plates in the dishwasher and gave kisses and went home because they felt bad. Sara felt bad, too, but she didn't want to leave.

Yaffa twirled her tail around Daddy's leg and he got up to put some fresh food in the dish. Yaffa was fickle but Yitzi wasn't. Sara wanted the cats to sleep with her but they slept with Ziva. Was it getting close to bedtime? She was tired, especially from sitting in her special seat. It was hard to hold her head up for so long.

"Daddy? Can I go to bed soon?"

He smiled and picked her up fast. _Shoom_. It was nice to be tall. "Yep," he said. "Let's do a quick bath tonight."

"_Private_, Daddy," she warned. She didn't want him to take off her diaper in front of all these people. She'd get embarrassed.

He carried her into the bathroom and wet a cloth. It was soft and rough on her skin—not too hot and not too cold—and then he changed her quickly and she brushed her teeth with no help because she was getting big. Or that's what everyone said, anyway, which was weird because Julie at school said she wasn't growing.

Daddy carried her back into the living room, where Dod Romi was handing Doda Ayelet her coat. The inside was silky purple. Sara wanted to smooth her hand on it. "I have important meetings," he sighed. "Even a hedonist like me needs to earn a living. My dear Ayelet, is everything cleaned up? Let's not leave a mess for Tony and Zivaleh."

She looked around and made her scarf nice inside the top buttons. "Everything is clean. Give me a kiss, Zivi. It's time for your old _dod _and _doda _to go back to New York."

Sara's dinner went up and down in her belly. This was _bad_. If they left then Ziva would throw a big tantrum and then what? She shivered at all that badness, at Ziva falling down in the hallway and a blue bowl on the floor. Daddy pulled her close but she pushed away—she needed to see.

"Come now, Zivaleh," Romi said. "We'll see you soon in Katzrin."

Ziva got up, all fumbly and bumbly, and started to cry. Tony shushed and rubbed her back, but she cried more and more and _more_. She made horrible noises. Her breath was loud and scratchy-sounding and her hands went flat over her chest and then it was like _all hell broke loose_, as Daddy would say, which was a little bit like a swear but it was true because Ziva was screaming and Tony wanted to take her to the hospital and Dod Romi was nervous and all white in his face but Ayelet just held Ziva like a baby even though she _wasn't _a baby, she was a big girl. Almost old enough to be a mommy. Sara's heart hurt. They weren't supposed to go. She was super lucky when Tony took Ziva from Doda Ayelet and made the screaming stop. Someone needed to get Ziva a blanket. She was cold.

"Zi needs one of you to stay," he said to them quietly. He had his grownup face on.

They looked at each other for a minute and talked in their heads. Sara sighed and put her face by Daddy's neck. She felt calm now. They would do the right thing.

"I will stay with my Zivaleh," Doda Ayelet said. She was very serious. "Romi cannot miss his meetings." She poked Ziva's chin and made her look up the way Daddy did to Sara sometimes. "I am staying, my girl." Ziva pressed her good cheek hard on Tony's chest and nodded.

Doda Ayelet would have to sleep on the couch. Or maybe she would sleep with Ziva in the soft bed and Tony would sleep on the couch. And then he would whine _my back, my back_ until Daddy gave him a Hard Look.

But there were no Hard Looks. Ziva kept her face down while Dod Romi left. He gave her a kiss on her cheek and his skin was smooth, not bristly, and then Daddy put his face close to Sara's and he _was_ bristly but his voice was soft and he said:

"Bedtime, sweet pea?"

"Yeah."

The bedroom was dark. Nice. "You want a book?"

She didn't want to pay attention. "No."

"Quiet time?"

She sighed. Everything was heavy. "Can I have my paci?"

He gave it to her and then Daddy went _shhhhh shhhhh_ and played with her hair and there were soft sounds outside—Tony talking to Ayelet, the baby blanket being swept from the couch—and then she slept, face turned toward the window and the glowing streetlight below.

. . . .

Everything was shadow once the crying started and from the shadow came the canes and the belts and the rifle butts. From the shadow came Saleem and how he knocked her down and bashed her face on the floor until she couldn't see. Then her clothes were off and she was freezing and someone's hot skin was pressed against hers. Ziva gagged. Her mouth burned and would not open. There was a firm hand on the back of her neck that forced her head down, down. Nothing came up. Her throat bubbled with acid. She was hot and cold.

There were hands on her again, pushing. She dragged her stupid, clumsy feet. No, she would not go with them. There were no more secrets to tell. Would they smash her fingers anyway? Break her legs? Hang her from the ceiling and play tetherball with her spongy skull? Heat started again in her middle and came up her throat. She _did_ vomit, then, and was angry. Who knew when they'd feed her again?

But she didn't want them to come with rice and scummy water. She wasn't sure she'd survive another round of thirty men. They took turns holding her down. They cheered each other on. Ziva was so terribly, terribly ashamed but it was so terribly, terribly justified. Eli was _dead_ because of her and Israel was going to war again and again and again.

Watery, yellow ropes of spit landed on the floor. The wood floor. Her hallway. Her home. A mess.

A hand on her back kept her hunched over until there was nothing left in her broken mouth. Another hand put a rough cloth to her face and neck, and then her feet weren't on the floor anymore. She was moving quickly through the dark, too quickly. There was a loud, keening sound—was that her?—and then she was down again, down among soft, warm things.

Her bed. Her eiderdown and pillow. Something brushed her bottom lip and there was sweetness on her tongue. Juice? Candy? Was she a child being put to bed in the cot in Dod and Doda's room, like when she fell from the horse and her leg _crunched _and was laden with hot stones? She'd plugged her mouth with her thumb all night, wanting and not wanting to wake Ayelet and be comforted.

Her thumb. The right one was bad. Thumbsucker. _Sara_. The baby. She loved and hated that child and her grey-green knowing gaze. Gibbs was a bad father for allowing Ziva's ugliness into her shiny little life, but not for the way he held her close and stroked her wild curls and called her _baby girl_. Daughters. Fathers. What _did_ she know about that?

Eli was dead and Romi was gone. Ziva wanted to be gone. A hand on her brow was cool and she pressed against it. Steady, steady. The room pitched and heaved. She thought of a ship. Damocles. Fire and cold water and something brushing her leg as she swam toward the lights on the horizon. She swam for her father who put out his cigarette on her arm and called her a _mamzer_. Did she know he was right? She gulped saltwater and her stomach rolled and rolled. She threw up again. There was a blue bowl on the floor by the bed. She didn't recognize it.

A third voice joined the two that were yammering, hammering, in the dark. A quiet one, low and lilting. Then there was a prick inside her good wrist and a wash of warmth up her arm, up her neck, into her head. Someone—Doda Ayelet?—pulled the blankets up and smoothed her hair. _Sha_, she said. _Sha, my baby_.

Ziva had never been a baby. She had come into the world with weapons. _As_ a weapon. And now she wasn't, but there was no yelling, only a soft, warm hand on her head and the strains of some lullaby she'd sung once and been done with.

_The horsemen are coming, my child._

Ducky pushed the sedative and Ziva dropped off into restless sleep. Her sobs faded, though she trembled and moaned as Ayelet tucked her soft lamb beneath her arm and smoothed the baby blanket over her shoulders. She wiped Ziva's hands and face with one damp cloth and laid another on her brow.

Tony wobbled and doubled over, propping his hands on his knees. "What the _hell_ was that, Duck?"

"An anxiety attack," he replied gently. "And possibly flashbacks...we can't know for sure. I think the Valium and painkillers will help temporarily. Are you all right, Anthony?

He swallowed and grunted, head hanging. "Yeah. I left a message for her shrink and one for her doctor. She needs meds, I think." He swallowed again, nauseated. "Forty-five minutes, Duck. She carried on for _forty-five minutes._"

"She is unwell," he said carefully. "Sedating her is our only choice for now. I will stay until she's no longer dehydrated but I'll leave the line in. She may need more fluids in the morning, and you _must_ get her back onto her antidepressant medication straight away. It is _imperative_, Anthony."

Tony nodded and nodded, still with his hands on his knees. "I will," he replied sadly, but straightened and smoothed the front of his shirt. "I'll make some tea. Ayelet, would you like some?"

She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a small circle on Ziva's hip. "Is it too much to ask for coffee? I doubt there will be any sleeping tonight."

"Understood," he acknowledged softly, and went out into the hallway. He could smell sickness though the puke had been cleaned up from the hallway floor. He started the coffeepot, warmed water for tea in an electric kettle, and filled a dishtowel with ice cubes. Ziva's face looked like a rotten peach.

He turned back toward the bedroom but Ayelet ambushed him, blue eyes blazing. She was a beautiful woman, a lioness, with a gaze sharp enough that even Gibbs might cut his stare and look away.

"Flashbacks?" she demanded. "Flashbacks from _what_, Tony?"

He held out the poultice feeling weak and useless. "What do you mean?"

She was seething, baring her teeth. Lioness, indeed. "You know damn well what I mean."

He poured her the first cup of coffee. "Um," he fumbled. "Ziva was taken captive a few years back. She was held at a Somali terrorist camp for three months. They...wanted information."

She blinked and nodded. "A woman. A Jew. In a Jihadi camp."

He nodded. A long moment passed in silence.

Ayelet broke it with a sigh of resignation. "Another child sacrificed. Abraham, Isaac...we have come no further. No wonder she is screaming and screaming, Tony; there was no ram to take her place." She looked at the soggy compress in her hand and blinked back tears. "Excuse me, please. Ziva is having pain. I will take this to her."

He offered her a cup of coffee and she took it, bowing her head in gratitude. He followed her with the promised tea.

"Her fever is high," Ducky said, tucking an ear thermometer back into his bag. He accepted the mug Tony held out to him. "But not high enough to warrant concern."

Ayelet hummed and peeled back the tape that secured the aluminum eye shield to Ziva's face. Underneath was terrible; it looked like someone had slipped an egg beneath her eyelid and under the mottled flesh over her cheekbone. Tony suppressed a wince. Ayelet dabbed healing ointment on the cuts—her skin burst from the force of Eli's blows—and put the icepack over the worst of the swelling. Ziva was so heavily sedated she didn't even flinch.

"My brave girl," she cooed, stroking her hair, her hands. "Courageous little Zivaleh, always rushing headlong into your father's war. There is no more of that, my baby. You rest. We will take good care of you."

. . . .

Tony flopped down in the armchair, close to tears, exhausted from worry and pacing. Soft footfalls came out of the bedroom and Ayelet sat on the sofa. She put her hands primly on her knees. There were dark half-moons under her eyes.

"She is still asleep," she informed him, whispering. "Peacefully asleep." She regarded him carefully, eyes roving up and down. Did he look as shitty as he felt?

"How did she get out?" she asked abruptly.

Oh. That. "We went in after her," he said lowly.

"You rescued her."

No. _Rescue _was what would've happened if they'd gotten to her before Saleem Ulman. What they did was _recovery_. "They truth-serumed me and got all wound up because my big dumb mouth wouldn't stop flapping, and then they dragged Ziva in with a bag over her head." He looked out the window. Dawn would be coming soon. "When they took it off she had this _look_ on her face." He trailed off, thinking about her dirty, bruised skin and vacant gaze. "She might have been breathing and talking and walking around but inside she was _dead_. Her eyes...but it only lasted a second. Then she was pissed at me for being there."

A single tear rolled down Ayelet's cheek. She closed her eyes and spoke without opening them. "It haunts you, Tony? That look?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "It does."

"How could it not? Were you together, then?"

"No. Not until a year later, but I hung around after she came back, helped her get settled." He gave a shy smile. "Tried to give her some space to deal."

"Deal," she spat, looking around. "I know my Zivaleh. She didn't _deal_. She was trying to forget. Trying and trying."

"She coped the best she could, I think." Tony's hands ached. "And she did really well—got her own place, worked, went to therapy. It was good. We even went on a few dates like normal people."

Ayelet cocked her head. "And what happened, Tony? Why is she like this _now_?"

He rose and made coffee. The clock in the microwave read oh-four-twenty. "Sara happened," he said tartly. "One minute Gibbs is just _Gibbs_, drinking his bourbon and building his goddamn boats, and the next he's raising this little tiny kid who'd been kicked around in the foster care system for a year and a half after her mom died. She was a wreck when Gibbs got her—scared, starved, _abused_—but she turned out to be this adorable, happy kid. I call her Bug. Buglet."

She arranged coffee mugs in a triangle on the countertop. "She's so small."

"Yeah."

"She gets so much love from all of you."

He smiled. "Yeah."

"All the things my Ziv'keh survived and then...she must feel so cheated."

He crossed his arms. "We've talked about it a little. She doesn't think she deserves the same love Sara gets." Ayelet's eyes widened and he wanted to take back every damned word. "But she never blamed you guys or anything."

"But she never spoke of us, either," she clipped, eyes wandering. "She hid us away. I hope it was because she didn't want to bring those good memories into her difficult life. My poor _buba_."

He exhaled and smiled. "How many nicknames do you _have_ for her?"

A small smile creased her feline face. "A thousand. We love the diminutive of anyone's name—Zivaleh, Ziv'keh, Zivi. My given name is Hinda. I was _Hindaleh_ until we moved to Israel when I was nine. Then I took the Hebrew equivalent of my Yiddish name—Ayelet. Ziva couldn't say it when she was little so she called me 'Ayla'."

He was strangely and inexplicably stunned. "Where are you from?"

"Riga."

Tony had no idea where that was. Eastern Europe? Former Soviet-bloc? "Oh. Are your parents um, _survivors_?"

He meant the Holocaust. She smiled graciously. "Yes, but they were young. I was born at Kaiserwald, which was not a death camp, but a work camp. Their youth and strength saved them _and_ me. After liberation, we stayed at the camp until there was enough money to travel to Israel. The boat came into the port at Haifa so slowly I considered jumping overboard and swimming to shore. My father grabbed my beautiful Shabbat dress—we dressed up to travel, back then—before I could climb the railing. He took me swimming in the sea as soon as he could. The water was so warm; I wanted to stay in forever. Have you gone swimming in the Mediterranean, Tony?"

"No," he said slowly. "But Zi said she would take me. She said Eilat is the place to go."

Her eyes lit up. "It _is_. The reefs and the beach are so beautiful. Just wait until you see. Perhaps when you come we will take a short trip there. Romi might like to get away from the winery for a while. He works very hard. I am lucky to have married the David I did."

He grimaced. "Ziva wasn't so lucky."

Ayelet flinched and looked away. "No, she wasn't. There were so many times, Tony, that I had our passports out. It would've been so easy to book a flight and disappear."

He scoffed. "He would've found you and killed you in an instant."

"I know. That's why I never did it. Riga has become a beautiful, cosmopolitan city. I could've taken her there, but she would've stuck out like a sore thumb among all those blonde Northern Europeans."

"She hates the cold," he said with a wry smile.

"Always has. Eli sent her to Siberia all the time, or so it seemed. I don't know how long she was there, but she came to us after and got in the hot tub and didn't move for two days. Our cook served her meals on a towel. She ate and ate. Anything we gave her disappeared—meat, salad, bread, fruit, hard-boiled eggs, tea—and all without getting out of the tub. When she did come out she went straight to bed and slept for a week under that baby blanket. I bought that for her infant layette. Ordered it from Sweden. No—Denmark?" She threw her hands up. "I can't remember."

He smiled and poured them each another cup. "How long is the Valium supposed to last?" Oh-five-ten. Seven hours since Ziva crashed.

"I don't know," she mused, thinking. "But I'll go to her. It will help if I'm there when she wakes."

He followed her into the bedroom, where Ziva was still bundled under her blankets and baby duvet. He brushed his fingers over her cheek; it was warm with fever and he sighed, doubtful. How could she ever be ok?

Ayelet smiled at his tenderness and lowered herself to the mattress. "I will rest here for a moment," she whispered, eyes sliding closed. "I will rest a moment with my Zivaleh."

Tony shook out an afghan and spread it over her. "I'll be in the other room. Shout if you need me."

Her hand found Ziva's. She lifted her head, confused, and peeled off the splint to run her fingers over the surgical scars on her fingers and wrist. "She is so broken," she murmured tearfully. "Is there any part of her life that doesn't have Eli's mark on it?"

Tony bit back tears, hung his head. "No," he said mostly to the floorboards. There was a colorful braided rug over them. It was pretty, he decided. "No, but there will be. And we'll celebrate that, ok?"

She gave him a watery smile. "Ok. We will celebrate with plenty of wine and food. But it has been a long night and I must rest. You are a good man, Tony. Thank you for protecting my Zivaleh."

A tiny spark warmed his worried heart. "Always," he promised. "Always."

. . . .

Eli sent Ziva to Siberia twice. Hard missions, winter, Norilsk: city of snow and steam, nickel mines, pollution. A city of Gulag. A city that hated Jews. Thigh-deep snow on the steppe and waiting and waiting to make her move. Frostbite welded the tips of her fingers to her rifle stock. The flesh tore away in hunks when she took the shot.

She was cold—_so_ cold—and someone was hovering nearby. Featherlight touches on her hands and arms, the soft sound of tearing, and then her face was _fire_. She cried out softly and someone gasped.

"Zivaleh? Ziv'keh?"

Doda? No, she was not in Israel. There was no home there anymore. Doda Ayelet would chase her off the property with a stick. How would she run? Her head was—

"Zivaleh, are you in pain? Would you like some more medicine?"

A soft hand landed on her brow and that was familiar. Familiar and _wonderful_. She pleaded silently for it to stay there all day.

"Open your eyes. Open them up and look around. The sun is out a little today and it is beautiful. I opened the curtains just a tiny bit. Have a look-see, my baby."

She was no one's child but opened her eye anyway. There was only a wash of color and a heaving sensation. She closed it again. Her stomach curled sharply and she gasped. No. No more sick. She couldn't—

Her _doda_'s dry hands turned Ziva quickly onto her side, brought her knees up, and shoved a bowl under a chin. Her breath resonated in it. Up came a tablespoon of fluid. There was noise somewhere, and then a cold cloth touched her head. Dimly, she was aware of that from before.

The bed moved. She squeaked, dizzy, and then the blankets were tight under her chin and she was in someone's arms. Her hair was pushed back. Cool air swept across her eye. Breath. _Doda._

"Sha," she soothed. "The doctor gave you more fluids and something to calm your stomach. I don't like the needle, Zivaleh, but the medicine is helping. Rest and you won't be so dizzy."

Ok. Ok—she would rest. She could smell warm spices and her aunt's distinct, fruity scent. Light. _Happy_. Maybe the world wasn't so awful, even with its pitching and swirling. Ziva exhaled slowly and sunk a bit against her Doda's shoulder. Her head flopped forward. Ayelet put it back. The cold cloth landed on her brow again.

"Sha, my baby," Doda said. "Let's have some quiet time together, _ken_?"

_Ken_, she wanted to say. _Ken, ken, ken_.

She drifted again and woke to shuffling. An experimental glance ended in a gurgling stomach. "Can you sit up?" someone asked. Were they close or far?

Doda's arms tightened around her. Oh. Nice. "No, she can't. She is very sick."

Sick. Yes. Ziva was very sick. Her facewas sick or sickening.

"I need you to sit up," the voice said to her. Who was that? Why did she have to sit up? Was she in trouble? Was someone taking her away? Panic gripped her throat where her father's fist landed. She gagged. Doda cupped Ziva's chin and the bowl was back. No puke, but she felt pathetic. Pathetic people did not go to prison; they went to bed. She began to cry.

There was an exchange—conversations were muffled and it was worse when she couldn't see anyone's mouths—and Ayelet shook her blonde curls on Ziva's pillowcase. The color was called _aubergine_ and she picked it out by herself. She liked purple. "I _told_ you; she cannot sit up. The smaller syringe is slower to dispense. If we're careful she will not choke."

"Can't we put them in her IV?" Tony asked. So _that_ was the needle Doda Ayla was talking about. A pinch in her wrist was a reminder. Maybe not, because then a tube was inching back into her cheek and sweetness lit upon her tongue. It was _delicious_, even with the bitter aftertaste. The tube went out and came back with more. Less sweet, but still welcome. The craving for sugar intensified when the tube was removed. Ziva tried to pry her good eye open again. There was less whirling, but everything was so blurry that it wasn't worth looking. She closed it again. Ayelet hugged her tight. The crying began all over again. Would it ever stop?

"Sha, baby," she said again. "You're safe now. Doda loves you. Hush." She brushed her fingers down Ziva's less-damaged cheek and with the soft stroke came a creeping calm. It was vague and warm and soothing. Her wrist throbbed—the splint was gone. Doda replaced it gently, tickling the palm of Ziva's hand with the edge of the Velcro straps. Pain lingered somewhere but she found herself not caring, not thinking, but not quite sleeping either. She was heavy, heavy.

Doda gave her a gentle nudge. Gentle. Ziva liked that. "Zivi?" she asked in her good ear. "I took the cover off your eye last night and Ducky thinks we should put it back on. Is that all right?"

No. Yes. Was it going to hurt? A tiny sound was torn from her throat and she trembled, afraid. She was tired of pain. She was tired of people hurting her.

"We have everything prepared," Doda went on. "I just need to turn your face a little bit so he can put the tape back. We won't hurt you, ok?"

No. No no no. No one was to touch her but Doda Ayla. She trembled harder. Her ribs complained, then her head complained as her chin was tipped up and someone else's finger prodded her ruined eye. No. Wrong. She jerked away. Pain and dizziness came back in a rush and she cried out. Her breathing was loud. _Everything_ was loud. There was shouting and then someone had her bad wrist tight and that _hurt_ and she made a high, shrill noise.

Doda scolded her, maybe, and then the blankets were lifted away. Ziva yelped and shivered. They—there were more than one—sat her up, cupped her chin, held the bowl out. Weren't they trying to hurt her? Why was someone's hand so soft on the crown of her head? She swayed. Another hand steadied her under the arm.

"Ziv'keh," Doda said. "I want you to take a nice breath and calm down. You are safe. Dr. Loeb and Ducky are going to step out while Tony and I clean you up and get you into some fresh _fig'ma'ot_. Understand?"

Ziva pried her good eye open. Doda Ayla's face was close enough that could kind of see it. She was _pretty_. How could her beautiful aunt bear to look at her shattered, swollen face? Wasn't she disgusted? She reached up to touch the bad side and a hand intercepted hers.

"No, Zi," Tony said softly. He was posting her up it seemed, with one of his long arms around her shoulders. That was nice. Safe. "Don't touch."

She shook her hand loose and probed her eye anyway and it was flames again. Her eye. Her ear. Her jaw. Pain radiated into her teeth, her neck. She grunted.

Doda's scent disappeared and returned. Ziva's arms, neck, and hands were rubbed with a soft, wet, warm cloth, and then dried with something rougher. Her clothes were pulled off and replaced quickly and without embarrassment. That was…better. She was helped back against the pillows. The blankets returned and with them something soft. Not soft—_squishy_.

"Tully, Zivaleh," Doda purred.

Oh. Her lamb. She reached out one finger to touch it and pulled back.

"He is yours, _motek_. Hold him close. Maybe it will help you feel not so scared."

Ziva mustered her courage, put out her hand, seized Tully by one leg, and pulled him against her aching chest. She waited, and when he wasn't snatched away immediately, exhaled. Was that _comfort_? That sneaking calm crept up again. Doda was humming and stroking Ziva's hair and the fear ebbed further, receding like a slow summer tide. Her arms went limp, her legs, her neck. She breathed in noisily and exhaled again, slow, steady. The blankets were adjusted. Something cool and smooth touched her lower lip, then her upper. It did not hurt.

"_B'seder_," Doda said. "So chapped. We'll do better with the balm."

Ziva hummed, hoping she knew it meant _toda_ and bobbed away in slumber's frail coracle.

. . . .

"She's asleep," Ducky said quietly, and traded IV bags. "Perhaps we should all sit down and have a conversation," he said quietly.

Dr. Loeb agreed. Tony rose from where he'd crouched at the bedside and looked at Ayelet, who was curled around Ziva on the mattress. "I think she'll be ok," he said lowly.

She studied her face the way a mother watches a sleeping infant. "Yes," she finally agreed. "But let's leave the door open."

He let her lead him to the small dining table, where the doctors had already spread a few release forms and prescription slips. He sat heavily, limbs loose. "Is she going to be ok?"

The glance they shared was not reassuring. "Eventually," Dr. Loeb ventured. "But this is, as they say, 'rock bottom'. We can't expect an overnight recovery."

He nodded numbly and propped his elbows on the table. "What's wrong with her?"

Her brown eyes went wide. "I couldn't begin to give a diagnosis based on that twenty-minute observation, but, given what I saw and what I know of her history, I can hazard guesses about major depression, severe generalized anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a panic disorder. Has she been combative?"

"No," Ayelet said quickly. "She has only tried to … to protect herself."

"What happened?"

She looked at Tony and Ducky. "Ziva had a panic attack last night. She cried so hard she made herself sick. She was shaking and…and _moaning_ and she had her hands up like we were going to strike her. We would _never_ but she was…not with us. She was back in a place where she'd been hurt terribly."

"Flashback?" Dr. Loeb asked Ducky.

He nodded grimly. "So it seemed. I gave her ten milligrams of Valium and a few of Compazine to counteract any drug-induced nausea. It worked, but not quickly enough."

"I prescribed a fairly high dose of alprazolam for this initial phase. Once she's a little more cognizant and a little less panicky we can taper it off. I also raised her dosage of escitalopram." She folded her hands. "I am sorry it came to this. Ziva was making such positive progress in our sessions."

Tony wiped his face with his hand. Exhaustion was ruining his manners. "What do we do for her besides force-feed her medication? Anything?"

Dr. Loeb pursed her mouth. "I want to tell you to drag her out of bed, make her eat, make her move around, make her do _anything_ that will draw her back to the world. But I can't. She's in pain. _Physical_ pain. She needs rest and fluids and perhaps something to eat once she's up to it. Can she chew?"

"No," Ducky said softly. "Ziva was fitted with a modified Herbst appliance to hold her broken jaw in place while it heals. It's bonded and the hinge is locked in a closed position. She's on a liquids-only diet."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Poor thing. Please let me know right away if you notice more weight loss. Her medications might need to be adjusted."

Tony nodded. Ziva had already dropped several pounds. Any more from her small frame would be...not good. He rose from the table, frustrated, and pushed in his chair with a smirk. Zi would be proud; she was constantly after him to clean up after himself.

"Perhaps," Dr. Loeb said slowly. "It would be better if we admitted Ziva to a psychiatric hospital. It might take some of the burden of her care from your shoulders."

Ayelet drew herself up in anger. Tony braced himself. "No," she snapped. "My daughter is not a _burden_; she is a bright, accomplished, compassionate woman who was _assaulted_ and _kidnapped_ multiple times. Beaten. Raped. Humiliated. I will not let strangers put their hands on her and sit idly by like I'm out for coffee and a manicure. Please leave the prescriptions—Tony will fill them straight away." She stalked back into the bedroom, back straight, and cast a withering glance at the table occupants before closing the door. Her blonde curls were a lioness' raised hackles.

He smiled humorlessly. "So that's a _no_, Dr. Loeb. Thanks for coming. Let me write you a check."

. . . .

Gibbs bumped the bedroom door open and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Sara snuffled softly around the pacifier—she left her doctor's appointment feeling a little teary—and waved her book at him. He rubbed her tiny head with his big, rough hand. Both dark-haired girls brought him much to worry about.

Ayelet was in bed, cradling Ziva like a child and stroking her hair. Ziva was hiccupping softly, breath hitching, obviously calming down from yet another panic attack.

"Hey," he greeted softly. "Sara wants to read her favorite story to Ziver."

She chuckled. "I think my Ziv'keh would like that. Hm, baby?"

Ziva swallowed and sighed. Gibbs took it to mean _yes_ and lowered Sara to the mattress.

"Closer, Daddy," she ordered, and amended it quickly with, "Please."

He shifted her, feeling like a crane operator. He was _done_ with this body cast business.

"Good," she said once her leg overlapped Ziva's. She held out the book. "Zeeba, I am going to reading farmer book. Ok?"

Ziva's eye roved. She blinked and appeared to focus on the picture book held before her.

"Ok," Sara confirmed gravely. She opened to the first page. "_In October of that year he backed his ox into the cart and his family filled it up with everything they made or grew all year long…"_

Ayelet raised an eyebrow. "She reads? "

Gibbs smirked. "She memorizes."

"_He packed five pairs of mittens his daughter knit from yarn spun at the spinning wheel from sheep sheared in April._" She lowered the book. "You have your sheep, Zeeba?" She frowned when Ziva didn't respond. "You have him?"

Ayelet inched the baby duvet down just enough; a worn, grey, smiling face peeped out. "She does, _motek_."

Sara blew out a dramatic breath. "Oh, good. If she didn't have him she would getting sick. _Get_ sick." She peered again at Ziva's wan, bruised face. Ziva peered back.

Gibbs swore he saw a bit of shyness in her dark gaze. "Easy, sweet pea. Ziver might be uncomfortable with you so close."

She didn't pull back. He considered moving her away. "She needs tea," she announced seriously. "Tea in a purple packet with milk and honey. But not hot—just warm."

He looked at Ayelet, who shrugged without letting go of Ziva. "Maybe she's right. Would you mind? I shouldn't get up and Tony is finally resting."

He nodded. DiNozzo was asleep on the couch, unshaven and rumpled, but peaceful. The tea was easy to find, the kettle boiled quickly, and Gibbs lifted it off the base before it could scream.

Sara was singing to Ziva when he returned, singing about the sunshine outside and a trip to the park if she ate all her cake. He smirked. "Ziver can't eat cake, sweet pea."

She scowled. "Yes she can."

He passed the syringe full of milky, sweet Earl Gray to Ayelet, who tucked the tube back into Ziva's cheek and kissed her brow before easing the release valve open. "Swallow, Zivaleh," she prompted.

Ziva hummed in appreciation—the first sound she'd made in over a day that wasn't whimpering or a heartbreaking wail—and drank quickly. Greedily. He tried to remember her last meal and couldn't.

Ayelet lavished her with praise in both Hebrew and English. "My good girl," she cooed. "My sweet baby. Your tea is nice? _Taïm, ken?"_

Ziva gave a tiny nod and a harrumph of irritation when the syringe was empty. Her hand found her bruised throat. She nudged the book and blinked.

"Again?" Sara asked. "Read more?"

Another tiny nod. Gibbs perched on the edge of an armchair chair and let his hands dangle. His arms were sore from lugging his kid around. She, however, couldn't get enough cuddling and snuggling. Maybe that was because she couldn't feel anything through the thick fiberglass.

"Ok." Sara smiled, lifted it, and began a soothing, musical chant. "_When the cart was gone, he sold the ox, harness, and yoke, and walked home, his pockets heavy with coins for this year's salt and taxes."_


	18. Change

__**People, "Treading Water" has 900 reviews. I've never had 900 of anything in my life, except for maybe cat hairs on my sweater. Thank you. Thank you so, so much. Every single comment means the world to me. **

**And sorry this was late. It was hard. Writing is hard and life is hard. So eat chocolate and read this and be happy. Stay warm, you US Northeasterners! **

**. . . .**

And_ so it goes: 'this, too, shall pass.'_

_It cuts so strange. _

_The only thing that stays the same is change._

_-Melissa Etheridge, "Change."_

Gibbs put Sara down on the table and brushed her wild hair away from her face. She was naked except for the cast and diaper. The overhead lighting turned her eyes deep green.

"Daddy?" she asked softly.

"Hm?"

"I don't want them to take my big cast off."

He wasn't surprised and stroked her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. "You can't keep it forever, sweet pea."

She nodded, not convinced, and held out her hand. "Paci?"

He gave it to her. She put it in her mouth and sighed.

The tech was a tall woman in green scrubs. "I want to do this quick," she said. Gibbs detected an island accent—Trinidadian, maybe, or Grenadian. "And then you can take her straight downstairs for x-rays. Dr. Minton will see you when the films come back. Sara, are you ready?"

She nodded again, face turned away.

"Ok, then. I am going to ask Daddy to hold your hands out of the way so the saw does not cut you."

Gibbs moved to the head of the table and took Sara's entire upper body in his big hands. She fit; the wings of her shoulder blades rested easily in his palms. Her head lolled between his forearms. She sucked the pacifier hard, nervous.

"I got you," he whispered.

"Kay," she slurred.

The saw was loud but Sara wasn't afraid. She watched, interested, as the tech cut around the entire perimeter, beginning under her right arm and working down to her ankle, then between her legs and up the other side. The tech widened the cut with a spreading tool—Gibbs thought it looked like pliers in reverse—and sheared through the padding and stockinet with a pair of medical scissors.

"Ok," she said, "I'm going to take the whole front off in one piece. She might be scared when I hold it up. A lot of kids don't realize what they went through until it's done."

"She knows," he said mildly.

The two halves of the spica split with a _crack_ and there lay his baby, scaly and atrophied amidst the soiled padding and fiberglass. Yellowish, dotted with rashes, she looked like a pale specimen pinned down for dissection. Gibbs' gut tumbled. He brushed away a stray hunk of cotton batting. "How ya doin', Sar?"

She scowled. "Cold."

"I'm running water in the sink for you, little one," the tech said. "Daddy is going to give you a warm bath."

"Ok," she said vaguely. Gibbs rubbed a small rashy-looking patch on her right side. The surgical incisions still bore protective adhesive patches.

The taps were turned off. "Go ahead," she said. "Pick her up. Her legs might stick out like toothpicks, so support her the way you did when she was in the cast."

Gibbs bent low and scooped Sara into his arms. She was light and spindly. Her head rolled on his bicep. He steadied it with his opposite hand. "Ok, baby girl?" She was limp and breathing heavily. Worry seized his heart. "Sar? Ya' ok?"

"Yeah," she replied unsteadily. "Sore, Daddy."

He cursed under his breath. "I'm sorry, sweet pea. Let's ask the doctor if I can give you more medicine for it."

"Ok," she said. He lowered her into the wide steel sink and she sighed in relief.

"Daddy is going to wash off all the yuck," the tech said. "Tell him if anything hurts, ok?"

"Ok."

Gibbs bathed her slowly, sluicing away dead skin and bits of cotton padding. Sara was quiet—eerily so—until he lifted her out of the tub and onto a bed of folded towels. He wrapped two of them around her. Goosebumps formed on her skin.

"Cold," she mumbled again.

He dried her off. "I brought a warm dress for you." Her stare was green and vacant. He brushed a finger over her knee and she blinked but didn't protest.

The tech handed him her clothes—the softest, warmest dress he could find and her favorite legwarmers—and motioned at the cast still lying on the table. "You want that?"

"No," he said flatly.

She tossed it in the trashcan, smiling. "Your little girl is very cute. Enjoy holding her."

Gibbs thanked her and dressed Sara delicately before lifting her into his arms again. "I'm proud of you, baby girl."

She smiled against his collar. "I'm proud of you too, Daddy."

. . . .

The people in radiology were fast. Sara got through six films in less than ten minutes and was rewarded with a fistful of stickers and a lollipop. Gibbs tucked her into the stroller—she was growing too tired and limp to carry easily—and buckled the harness around her. He had to tighten it. She dozed, exhausted and medicated, as he bumped her into the elevator and up to the ninth floor, where all three doctors met him in the quiet hallway.

Dr. Minton stuck out his hand. "How is she?"

Gibbs lowered the sunshade further. "Fine," he said tightly.

He was ushered into a large exam room with a view of McMillan Reservoir. The water's surface was flat black under the weak sun.

Dr. Nevins, the geneticist, crouched before the stroller and smiled. "Quite a setup."

"She's got places to go," he acknowledged.

"I hate to wake her, but I'd like to do an exam on the table. I spoke to Dr. Sheehan and we have some concerns."

Gibbs unbuckled the harness and scooped her up, possessive; she was _his_ fragile thing. "Careful," he said lowly, cradling her head in his hand. "She's stiff."

"We'll be very gentle," Dr. Nevins said. "Hi, Sara," she greeted softly. "How are you feeling?"

She stared, silent.

The doctor rested her hands gingerly on Sara's chest and frowned. She tugged on Sara's arms and the frown deepened. "Floppy."

"She spent two months in a body cast," Gibbs said tightly.

"This isn't typical," Dr. Minton interrupted. "Most children aren't this weak, even after so many weeks in a double hip spica. Some are walking within days. For Sara, we can assume months, I think." He tickled her under the chin. "Can you lift your head up for me, kiddo? She raised her head, pressing her chin to her chest. "Hold it up for me," he coached. "Hold it up for as long as you can."

Ten seconds ticked by before her face turned red and she fell back, breathless. "Was that enough?" she asked, looking around. Gibbs took her hand in his.

Minton glanced at Nevins, who shook her head and made a note in the chart. He put his hands in front of Sara's face. "Push against my hands. Show everyone how strong you are."

She pushed, grunting, and Nevins shook her head again, making notes.

Minton felt her hips and legs. "Can you bend you knees?"

Sara's eyes filled. "No."

"Try for me, please."

She pushed and her toes pointed, but her froggy legs didn't budge and she burst into tears of frustration. Her arms went up; she wanted her Daddy.

Guilt and anger jammed their fists against Gibbs' solar plexus. He stroked her cheek and chest and had to take a breath before he could speak. "We put her through this so she would be _better,_" he snarled, "and now she's _worse_."

"We treated a very serious case of hip dysplasia and now she's stiff from the prolonged immobilization," Dr. Minton replied evenly. "Sara was in tremendous pain. She might be sore now, but the x-ray images look very good—her acetabula and femoral heads are beautiful. I'm positive she'll be mobile once her muscles relax."

Gibbs hovered at the head of the table, eyeing Sara's pale legs and prominent collarbones. "I was told hot baths would help."

"Yes," he said. "And don't be afraid to use those pre-op meds. They'll go a long way toward keeping her comfortable."

"Can we talk about her weight?" Dr. Nevins asked gently. "I have her growth records."

Dr. Sheehan handed Gibbs a chart. On it was a curve for the typical growing child. Plotted beneath were Sara's measurements in a single straight line. Only a tiny spike indicated the nocturnal feedings she'd received before her operation. He was unimpressed.

"She has OI," he deadpanned. "You said she'd be small."

"Not like this," Dr. Nevins said hurriedly. "Sara is the size of a twelve-month-old infant but she's five-and-a-half and not making gains. We need to intervene."

"No ya don't," he said dangerously.

"I want to do some blood work," she insisted. "I want values on her growth hormones. After that we can do an absorption review and feeding assessment."

"Feeding assessment?"

She counted Sara's ribs. "I wonder if malabsorption is the problem. She might not be getting the nutrients she needs from food. Those tests will help us figure it out."

"I feed her all the time. She doesn't need an _assessment_."

Sara sighed and looked around, dazed and drugged. "Daddy?"

"What, sweet pea?"

"C'n we go now?"

Gibbs glared at the doctors, who all exchanged glances and nodded. Good. He wanted to intimidate them.

"I know you're frustrated," Dr. Sheehan said. "Come by my office in two weeks for a check-in and we'll go from there."

He nodded and lifted his daughter off the table; she was feather-light without the cast. Her head drooped against his neck. She sighed again and shivered as he put her in the stroller and tucked her coat and blanket around her.

Dr. Nevins looked fondly at Sara. Gibbs saw his own worry reflected in her dark eyes. "Sara's hypotonia and bell-shaped ribcage make me wonder if her OI is worse than we thought."

He shrugged into his heavy work coat. "You said she had type one."

"Which is highly variable. We should wait and see."

"You mean wait until she breaks."

Her gaze dropped. "I wish it could be different. I think we should look into some positioning aids for her once her legs release. She could probably use some help sitting and moving. I'll speak to Sara's PT."

Positioning. Malabsorption. Hypotonia. OI. _Worse than we thought._ He whirled the stroller toward the door and paused—the doctors were not the enemy; the disease was. "Thanks," he said sincerely.

They all nodded with small, tentative smiles on their faces. "Two weeks," Sheehan reminded him. She held up two fingers. To Gibbs, it looked like the sign for victory.

. . . .

Sara slept a fitful sleep while Gibbs drove. Sleet pinged on the windshield. Traffic was sluggish, but he wasn't ready to go back to Ziva's small, hot apartment. He doubled back on Potomac Parkway, crossed the river, and pulled into the civilian parking lot at Arlington National Cemetery. Sara woke when he yanked the back door open. She smiled at him and he damn near melted into his boots. He unbuckled the harness.

"You know I was a daddy before, right?"

"Yeah," she slurred around the pacifier.

"You know my little girl and her mommy died, right?"

She nodded. "My mommy died."

He kissed her head. "I know and I am sorry. You must miss her."

She nodded again and held her arms up. "I wanna be on your shirt."

He strapped the carrier around his waist and shifted her delicately into the pouch. Her weak, floppy limbs drooped a bit, but she sighed and pressed her cheek against his shirt when he tightened the straps above her shoulders.

"I like this," she said absently.

He hugged her around the carrier. "Me, too. Are you ok with being in a cemetery?"

"It's where dead people live. Are we by Zeeba's house?"

"Nope. My little girl and her mom are here. Want to meet them?"

"Yeah."

Gibbs buttoned his heavy work coat around both of them, tugged a warm knit cap over his daughter's curls, and walked uphill past the amphitheater, around the Miles Mausoleum, and across the icy grass to Kelly and Shannon's plots. He had no flowers.

"Shannon is there," he said, pointing. "She was my wife. Kelly is there; she was my daughter. She died when she was eight."

Sara looked troubled. "Did someone hurt her?"

"Yeah," he said roughly. "Someone killed her while I was fighting in a war in another country."

She blinked at the headstones, resting her small, round chin on the carrier's shoulder strap. Then she pressed her face against his shirt and cried. Gibbs soothed her, though his own eyes were wet. "It's ok," he rumbled.

She sucked in a big, hiccuppy breath and threw her head back. He caught it, worried she'd hurt herself. "No it _isn't_!" she wailed skyward. "Your family got tooken away!"

"Yeah," he replied, rubbing her back through the pouch. "They did. And that's not fair, but I know that they be proud that we found each other. The would have loved you very much, sweet pea."

She cried a little more and then snuggled back into his coat. "Your family got stolen," she sniffled. "You got pictures?"

His neck prickled. "I do. I have them in storage with our beds and my tools. Maybe we should hang some up in our new house."

"Yes," she said slowly. She gave him a fisheye. "Why you didn't have them before?"

"Because looking at them made me feel bad." She pressed his sides with her hands in an approximation of a hug and he swallowed, moved. "You have been really brave today," he said softly. "I think you deserve a new toy. Would you like to go to the store and pick one out?"

Sara put her face back against his shirt. "Too sore, Daddy. A different day?" His heavy coat muffled her words and she shivered, pale skin rippling with the cold wind.

Gibbs turned and picked his way back across the frozen grass to the paved footpath. The sleet was turning to rain. Traffic would be a mess. He was a little glad she wanted to head back to Ziva's. "Of course, sweet pea. You gettin' hungry?"

"No." She cocked her head. "Maybe."

The car was still warm. He buckled her into the car seat and wrapped her coat and blanket back around her. He would have to buy something heavier for winter.

"People shouldn't hurt kids," she blurted angrily.

"Nope, they shouldn't."

She fixed him with a pointed green stare. "People shouldn't hurt kids because then families get tooken away. Your family got stolen, Daddy."

"I have you," he said lightly, cupping her small cheek with his big hand. "You're my family."

"Mr. Godwin hurt me," she said. She balled the blanket in her fists. "He hurt me and now my bones are all bad."

Rain slid down Gibbs' neck. "I'm sorry he did that, but you're bones aren't _bad_, Sar, they're fragile. It's my job to protect you and keep you from getting hurt again. Do you trust me to do that?"

"Yeah," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "He put me in a closet. He said I was bad and I stole but I didn't."

"I know you didn't. You're a very good girl, Sara."

She stared at the plastic buckle he was fastening across her chest. "He said I was stupid."

"You're not stupid at all."

"I don't know my words."

A gust of wind blew cold rain against the backs of his legs. Gibbs tugged her hat down further. "You can learn. That's why you go to therapy, and why you'll go to school next fall." He kissed her head and let his face linger close to hers. "I love you."

Sara reached up and wrapped both scrawny arms around his neck to draw him down to her. She kissed his cheek. "I love you too, Daddy."

. . . .

Ziva's condo was silent when Gibbs slid through the front door with Sara in his arms. Tony was out—his car wasn't in the parking lot—and he guessed Ziva was asleep, as she had been for the bulk of the past few days. Ducky had assured him it was better that way.

He put Sara down in a beanbag and positioned it so she could see the kitchen, where he pulled out a frying pan and the ingredients for a grilled cheese sandwich. The pain medications did a number on her appetite; he hoped she would eat at least part of it. She was quiet as he spread butter on white bread and added a slice of muenster, but he knew better than to assume it meant she was asleep.

"Kiddo?" he asked softly.

"Hm?"

"You know we need to find a house soon because ours sold. Is there anything special we should look for?"

"A pool," she said right away. "And a pony."

He smiled. "We don't need a pony. We have Yitzi."

"We need a pool," she insisted.

"I don't know that we can afford that, but what if we looked for a house near a pool we could use?"

She nodded, tangling her hair against the beanbag. "Ok. I want a house with smooth floors."

"Hard wood? But what if you slip and fall?"

She looked out the window. "I won't."

They fell silent. He flipped her sandwich—golden-brown, just as she liked. "What color should we paint your bedroom?"

She looked at him. "Same as before."

"You want everything the same?" He slid her sandwich onto a plate and squirted a dollop of ketchup on the side.

"Yeah, but I want a big window in my room. Bigger than the one in my old room. And I like the big tree outside. I want another tree by my room."

"We'll work on it." He scooped her up and froze; how was she supposed to eat? She couldn't fit in her spica seat, couldn't sit in a proper dining chair, and he worried she'd choke if he let her eat semi-reclined in the beanbag.

"Put her in your lap," Ayelet said from behind him. "I'll help."

He sat and she looked at him, smiling and sleepy-eyed. "I just woke up. Ziv'keh is still sleeping." She pulled a knife out of a drawer and cut Sara's sandwich into small, even rectangles. "Her fever is very high so I called your kind doctor friend. I hope it doesn't mind coming over again."

Gibbs tucked his daughter's curls behind her ears. Ducky had probably never treated so many live patients in his entire career as he had in the past four months. "I'm sure it's fine," he said gently.

She held out a small piece of sandwich. Sara took it with her mouth and hummed happily. Ayelet grinned. "You are a cute little bird. Here, try the next one yourself." She put another piece in Sara's outstretched hand and laughed when she jammed it in her mouth. "_So_ hungry. Who knew a child so small could have such an appetite?"

Sara grabbed another piece. "S'good," she said, mouth full.

"Slow down," Gibbs coached her gently. To Ayelet he said, "Sara is small because of her disease. It has nothing to do with her appetite."

She cocked her head, watching Sara chew and swallow with some difficulty. "She is not ok."

"Nope."

"They don't know what's wrong."

"Nope."

She blew out a long-suffering sigh. "The worry, Gibbs. Knowing you can't do enough..."

He kissed his daughter's curly head, chest aching. "Yeah."

Sara stuffed more sandwich in her mouth and asked for water. Ayelet furnished her with a sip-cup of juice instead. "I know what it's like," she said softly.

"No ya don't."

"Yes, I do," she argued. "I know how it is when you know your child will get hurt no matter what measures you put in place to protect her."

He swallowed and thought about Ziva's broken, swollen face. "I put Sara through an eight-hour surgery and two months in a body cast because they said it would fix her. Then they cut her out early because the cast was making her weak. Now she can't even hold her head up. We're starting from Square One. Again."

"Frustrating," she mused.

Sara sighed. "M'done."

Gibbs wiped her face and hands with a napkin. "You ready for a nap?"

"No!" she whined, close to tears. "I need milk."

Ayelet was out of her chair and pouring milk into a clean sipper before Gibbs could open his mouth. "Here," she said, pushing it into his hand. "Sit on the sofa and hold your baby. She needs you."

Ziva's couch was soft. He sank into the cushions and draped a chenille afghan around his daughter's shoulders. She sighed and drank, one hand clutching a swath of his polo.

Ayelet settled beside him and put two mugs of black coffee on the table. "Do you wish you could go back?"

The sip-cup gurgled. Sara sighed again and her eyes rolled; she was exhausted. "Back where?"

"Back before...everything?"

He brushed his daughter's cheek with his fingertips. "I tried to keep this from happening."

"Her disease? You said it was genetic."

"I met Sara in a volunteer program. We were reading partners. I knew she was being abused, but the channels to get her out of that house took too long. When she didn't show up one morning I new something was up. I called my team in as backup and went to her foster home."

Ayelet made a small noise in the back of her throat. "What happened?"

"She'd been beaten half to death and tossed in the trash." He frowned, thinking. "Ziver found her."

"Oh."

"She cried."

"Yes."

Sara fell asleep. Gibbs put the cup aside and wrapped the blanket tighter around her narrow shoulders, but didn't put her in the beanbag. "She was bleeding internally. Doc said she would've died if we'd come five minutes later."

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "Where is the man who hurt her?"

"One dead, one in prison."

"_Two?"_

"We found evidence of sexual assault that matched one guy's DNA, and the other..."

Another tear fell, unbidden. "One to rape her, one to beat her. A baby, Gibbs. A little, tiny baby girl."

"Yeah," he agreed softly. He held Sara tighter and she blinked awake.

"Daddy?"

"Sh," he soothed. "Sorry I woke you."

She grunted. "Wanna see Zeeba."

"She's sick, sweet pea. She's resting."

She began to cry. "I don't want her to be sick!"

He rose immediately. "No one is taking Ziva away, sweet pea. We'll go see her, but you have to be quiet."

The tears stopped. "Her eye is hurt."

"Yeah."

"And her ear. Don't touch it."

"I won't."

He pushed the door open. Surprisingly, Ziva was awake and peering out of her blanket fortress with shadowy blinking eyes. Ayelet gasped and rushed to the bedside, chortling happily in Hebrew. She switched to English when she saw Sara's small frown.

"Well hello, _cholmani_, I didn't expect you up so soon. How are you?" She brushed a hand down Ziva's arm, mottled green and yellow with fading bruises, and laid the back of it on her brow. "Still warm. How about some tea and more fever reducer?"

One of her shoulders rose in a shrug. Gibbs stepped into her line of sight. "Hey," he said, smiling. "How ya doing?"

Another shrug, but her good eye widened and one finger rose in Sara's direction.

"Yeah, it's gone. She's pretty wobbly, though, so we need to be careful." He looked at his daughter, who had her thumb in her mouth—a sure sign she was nervous. He kissed her cheek. "Want to lie down with Ziva while Doda Ayelet and I get her some medicine?"

She nodded. "Zeeba is a sleepyhead."

"She is," he agreed.

Ayelet laughed. "That's what I just called her, sweet _shaifeleh_."

Gibbs put Sara in the bed and she promptly put her hand on Ziva's unbruised cheek. "She is hot," she announced. "She has a fever."

Gibbs bolstered her with a pillow. "So keep her company while I get the medicine. Do you need more, too?"

"No. No, _thank you_."

Ayelet kissed Ziva's brow and went to follow him, but there was a small, scared noise and she shrugged, helpless. "She has trouble with me leaving," she whispered.

"So stay," he countered. "I know what she needs."

She sat on the foot of the bed and rubbed Ziva's ankle. "I am staying, _motek_. Gibbs will be right back."

He measured out a dose of liquid acetaminophen, brewed some strong Earl Grey tea, and added plenty of milk and honey. Sara was quiet in the other room while Ayelet told a story, presumably a happy one from Ziva's childhood.

Her blue eyes lit up when he returned. "Ah, yes. We must do this slowly. Ziv'keh? Doda is going to help you sit up so you can have tea and _tarofeh_, _ken_?"

Gibbs watched with a heavy heart as Ziva struggled to sit up. She was nearly as feeble as his own daughter, and moved as though her joints ached very badly. She propped her head on Ayelet's narrow shoulder and took the tube in her mouth. She was healing; it no longer needed to be stuffed back in her cheek. She slurped meds and tea, good eye blinking and fixed on him.

"Good?" he asked.

She nodded hazily.

"Good. You ok with Sar being in bed with you? She's missed you."

She turned and tugged off Sara's legwarmers. Her forehead creased. Sara gave a sleepy sigh and Ziva burst into tears.

"Zivi," Ayelet cooed, cuddling her close. "Why are you so upset?"

She shook her head and sniffled.

Gibbs reached down for Sara, but she put a hand out to stop him.

_No_, it meant. _She stays._

He pulled back. "You sure?"

She took a gasping, shuddering breath and nodded, but didn't move from where she'd curled herself into Ayelet's side. Her hand closed possessively around Sara's left calf. The red rash turned white with pressure.

"Careful," he said softly. She looked chastened and he felt bad. "We're still figuring out how fragile she is," he said apologetically.

Ayelet's drew Ziva closer and kissed her temple. "Are you going to stay awake for a bit, Zivaleh?"

Ziva glanced at Sara, already asleep among the quilts and pillows and shook her head. Gibbs helped her slide deeper beneath the blankets and she sighed. One finger traced a narrow purple stripe on Sara's dress. She sighed again and closed her eyes.

Ayelet pushed Ziva's curls back and dabbed some ointment on a healing gash near her hairline. "I stay until she's asleep," she whispered, and began to hum a lullaby.

His arms felt empty without Sara, but she was _fine_, he told himself. She was safely swaddled in Ziva's baby duvet and comfortably asleep for the first time in months. Gibbs scowled at himself and dropped kisses on both dark heads before sliding out the door.

He no sooner settled on the couch than Tony came banging through the front door, struggling under a heavy load of grocery sacks. "Boss," he said through his teeth. He had the handles of a canvas shopping bag between them. "Help."

Gibbs rose and shouldered four of the dozen bags he carried. Each bore the name of either a high-end grocer or the kosher supermarket in Chevy Chase. Ziva loved the grape leaves from their deli. "The hell is all this, DiNozzo?"

"Ayelet has meals planned for the next like, _month_. She's cooking all of them tonight or something because of Shabbat when she can't cook but she doesn't want us to starve..." he trailed off, sorting packages. "Can I really eat two steaks in one meal? Because that's what the note she gave me says."

"I've seen you eat an entire day-old pizza. I'm sure you can handle two Delmonicos." He held out a gallon jug of kosher grape juice. "Where does this go?"

Tony shrugged. "Fridge?"

Gibbs opened the door and stacked containers to make room. "Sara got her cast off this morning."

He gasped and dropped a bag of noodles into a drawer packed with other bags of noodles. "That's great! How's she doing? Happy? Sleepy? Is she stiff from being stuck in one position for too long, like when I do wall sits at the gym and my quads tighten up like taffy?"

"She's weak and sore," he said slowly. "They think something's wrong because she's not growing." Gibbs shrugged. "She's in with Ziver if you want to take a look."

Tony's face fell. "Uh, that's alright, Boss. I'll wait til she's up. Want coffee?"

He folded reusable bags into tight rectangles. "What's up, DiNozzo?"

DiNozzo was quiet for a long time while he brewed a pot of coffee and dug some cold cuts out of the fridge. "She won't let me touch her. She flinches like I'm going to hit her anytime I try." He put his hands up in surrender. "I've never laid a hand on her, Boss. I promise."

"I know," he said mildly, thinking about the delicate kiss he'd just placed on her brow. "She's not in a good place."

"She clings to Ayelet the way Sara clings to you."

He thought about the doctors; how they'd all encouraged him to let her regress. _Let her be a baby_, they'd chorused. _Meet her needs. Let her heal_._ Bond with her_. "Maybe Ziver just needs her mom," he said gently.

Tony snorted. "How can she need a woman she's never told me about?"

A gust of wind blew rain against the window. "How could Sara trust me to be her father?" Tony nodded and looked down. Gibbs saw tears gather in his eyes. "She's sick, DiNozzo," he said softly. "Doesn't mean she stopped loving you."

He nodded again. "I can't lose her."

"You won't." Gibbs put a hand on his slumped shoulder. "Go take a shower. Shave. Put clean clothes on. I want you to look presentable at the dinner table, even if it's only for me and Ayelet." He gave him a gentle push. "Go. You'll feel better."

Tony nodded, gathered his duffle, and disappeared into the guest bath. Water ran a second later. Soft singing followed—Sinatra. Gibbs smirked and settled on the couch once again with the TV remote.

Ayelet bustled out of the bedroom and crowed happily. "Oh, Tony got _everything_. He's such a good man." She counted the steaks stacked in the refrigerator shelf, the parsnips and carrots in the crisper drawers, and flipped through a battered cookbook, murmuring to herself in Hebrew. No, Gibbs realized, _not_ Hebrew—something else.

"You speak German?"

She looked up, surprised, and dripped coffee on the countertop. "A little," she admitted. "I think what you heard was Yiddish. It sounds like German and looks like Hebrew. It's my first language. I tend to code-switch when I'm planning."

"You speak it to Ziver?"

She grinned. "Of course. Ziva's aptitude for language is amazing. She was speaking in full sentences by the time she was two. In Yiddish, in Hebrew, and some in Russian."

"Russian?"

She sat next to him. "The housekeeper."

He harrumphed and nodded. "Sara didn't speak in full sentences until a month ago. I doubt a second or third language is in the cards for her."

"Ah-ah," she chastised, waving a finger at him. "Let her surprise you."

"She's still in diapers and sucks her thumb and a pacifier. She'd probably take a bottle if I gave her one."

"Ziva sucked her thumb until she was seven years old and slept with that sheep until she was in the army, yet she speaks ten languages."

Gibbs stared at the television. "Doesn't have her high school diploma."

She made an angry sound. "No, because her bastard father sabotaged her. She was _devastated_, Gibbs. But that was Eli—he took away the only chance she had of a life away from him." She muttered something in Hebrew and threw her hands up. Coffee sloshed over her hand and wrist and down her sleeve. "But I should not speak ill of the dead."

"Ziver was working on her GED when he got to her."

"An American diploma? That must have infuriated him."

"She never took the final exam."

Ayelet cocked her head. The gesture was Ziva-like. "She will. She hates to leave things unfinished."

"Wants to go to college."

"Good. Get her away from all this shooting and fighting. Ziv'keh needs to sit quietly in the library and read important books. Maybe she will write or translate."

"For who?" Tony asked, rubbing his wet head with a towel. He looked better. Gibbs guessed he _felt_ better.

"I don't know," she chuckled. "A literary magazine or a publisher. Or maybe she'll translate tax forms for poor immigrant women. I don't care so long as she isn't chasing after criminals with a gun in her hand. I want her to find the peace Eli never let her have."

Tony collapsed beside Ayelet. The couch bounced under his weight and her coffee sloshed again. "Easy, DiNozzo," Gibbs complained, but she only tugged Tony into a big hug.

"I know you're worried," she soothed, patting his neck and back. "I know you think Zivi is going to leave you, but she isn't, _motek_. She loves you very much. She just can't cope right now."

He sniffled. "I know."

She sat back but didn't let go of his shoulders. "I have been thinking—would it be all right if I stayed for a while?"

"Yes," he replied automatically. _Desperately_, Gibbs thought. "I'd love that."

"It might be time for you to go back to work," she said gently.

"Yeah," he admitted begrudgingly. "I should. Vance has been breathing down my neck about paperwork."

"So go to the office tomorrow," she commanded. "Do your important work. Keep people safe I will care for Ziva while you're away. Then you can come home to a hot meal."

"He has his own place," Gibbs groused good-naturedly.

She was stunned. "Where? Why? I wondered why none of your clothes were in the closet. I figured they were in the guest room. Ziva needs her own space to get ready in the morning."

He agreed. "I have a condo in Georgetown. Bought it years ago, kept it because I wasn't ready to give in. Now the market's tanked and it wouldn't make sense to sell."

"I understand. I am sorry to be so forward, but you're so comfortable here that I assumed and I shouldn't have."

Tony shook his head. "Ziva is good at making a space her home. I like her place better than mine. It's cozier."

"_Heimish_," she mused, and rose. "I should start dinner. Ducky will be here shortly and I promised him a proper chicken souvlaki." She lifted an eyebrow when Tony followed. "No," she said firmly. "Sit. Rest. Watch sports. This is an easy dish and a small kitchen."

He flopped back on the sofa and switched on a basketball game. "Glad she's here," he muttered.

"I know," Gibbs said.

"House sold?"

"Yeah."

"You going out looking tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Need someone to watch the Bug?"

He grimaced. _Hell no_. "Nope."

"Do me a favor?"

"What, DiNozzo?"

"Stay close by." He paused and watched Miami score again. "And make sure there's room for all of us."


	19. Living in Twilight

**You are all too lovely. I am all too writing. Here. Warning: may Trigger. Please take care of yourselves. X and O, the Mecha.**

**Thanks, Amilyn.**

**. . . .**

So_ it goes, though no one knows you like they used to do._

_ Have a drink; the sky is sinking toward a deeper blue._

_ And you're still all right._

_ Step out into twilight._

_ -The Weepies, "Living in Twilight."_

. . . .

_He woke her with a cuff to the head. "Get up."_

_ Ziva stumbled from her bed and stood before her father in faded pajamas. The tile floor was cold under her bare feet. He dragged her into the kitchen. The overhead bulbs blazed bright. She squinted, confused and fearful. _

"_Papa? Papa, I cleaned up like you said. I did what you said." He shoved her into a kitchen chair. "I did what you said," she repeated. Her eyes ached. "I did what you said. I cleaned everything up just like you said."_

_He slapped her face. The noise rung out, clear and true. "Shut up!" he snapped. "I do not care about that. I need to know something—what are you learning in school?"_

_Ziva searched his face for the right answer. "We have Judaics in the morning," she said slowly. "And-"_

"_Judaics," he mused, pacing. "Torah. What is this week's parasha?" He meant the portion to be read aloud in the synagogue on Saturday morning. _

_Ziva blinked; they did not go to services. "Yitro," she said quietly._

_Eli looked out the window over the sink. "And what is important about Yitro, Ziva?"_

_She thought of her Chumash teacher, Morah Rina, and how she swayed when she taught. She swayed like an old rabbi in a beit midrash. The old rabbis her father spurned. "We learn the Ten Commandments from Yitro, Papa."_

"_What are they?"_

"_There is no God but Hashem."_

"_And?"_

"_No idol worship."_

"_Yes. And?"_

"_No oaths. That means we can't swear on Hashem's name."_

"_Your father forgets that one often, Ziva. What else?"_

"_We have to remember Shabbat and keep it holy."_

_She could see the smile spreading on Eli's face. "Your mother is an excellent cook. How hard does she work to make such beautiful meals and take care of the baby?"_

"_Very hard," she agreed automatically. Tali had something called 'colic' that made her cry all the time. Ima was often tired, but the Friday night at Saturday afternoon meals were always delicious. The silver candlesticks shone in the window for all of Tel Aviv to see._

"_Yes, she does. Now go on, please. What is the next one?"_

"_Honor your mother and father."_

_Eli spun and pinned her with a glare but he spoke mildly. "What was that?"_

_Her pulse banged in her neck. She spoke a little louder. "Honor your father and mother."_

_He came toward her slowly. Ziva shrank back. Fear tightened its fingers around her heart. Eli reached into the pocket of his sport coat and withdrew an envelope. He slid it across the table toward her._

"_Kibud av v'eim," he said slowly. "Our holy Torah commands you to honor your mother and father. Yet I find this, Ziva. What does that mean?"_

_Before her lay a letter she'd written to Doda Ayelet, who was sweet and kind and lived far away in the Golan. It was open. There were promises inside—to be good, to earn good grades, to do exactly as she was told—if she and her big bear husband Dod Romi would let Ziva come live with them forever. Eli read those promises and now Ziva was burning hot with shame and humiliation. _

_ "What does it mean?" he repeated slowly._

_ "Nothing," she replied meekly. _

_ "Nothing?" His voice rose. "It means nothing? You write a letter to your aunt and uncle—my _brother_—begging to come live with them and you expect me to believe that it means nothing? You are lying to me, Ziva."_

_ Silence. The only sound was her ragged breathing._

_ "Kibud av!" he roared. "What does it mean?"_

_ "It means," she stammered, heart hammering furiously in her chest. What could she say to make him stop shouting? "It means I am foolish, Papa. I am sorry. I will throw it away."_

_ She reached for it and he crushed her small hand beneath his enormous fist. She squeaked, surprised, and that incensed him further. "Do not touch that," he said lowly. He ground his hand on hers. "Do you understand that once something is written it is forever?"_

_ She dipped her head. He hadn't lifted his hand from hers. "Yes, Papa. I understand."_

_ He put his mouth near her ear. She flinched. "You didn't think before you wrote this, did you?"_

_ "No, Papa."_

_ "You did not consider anyone but yourself, did you?"_

_ Her hand was pounding. Her _head_ was pounding. "No, Papa."_

_ "Obviously," he whispered. "Selfishness is the mark of a stupid child, Ziva."_

_ She blinked back tears. "Yes, Papa."_

_ He lifted his fist and turned away to pace. Blood rushed back into her hand and it burned like acid. "Kibud av. Kibud av and you want to run away? Kibud av and you're begging the epikoros Romi to live with him? Who raised you, Ziva? Who trained you? Who will teach you to be righteous and fight for your country? Certainly not your hedonist uncle and his wayward wife." His eyes were on her. She kept her head down. He grabbed her throat and made her look at him. "And to assume, Ziva. To assume they would want you—more selfishness and stupidity. I am ashamed to have such a daughter."_

_ She swallowed and looked timidly into his narrowed eyes. "Papa," she whispered. "I am sor—"_

_ His fist slammed against her face, cutting off her words, tightening his opposite hand around her small neck. She gagged and began to cry. "Papa, I am sorry. Please—"_

_ Eli yanked her out of her chair. The room banked and heaved. He spun her by the upper arm and then his belt landed on her shoulders, on her back, on her legs and behind. She cried out wordlessly and he stopped. She could hear him panting._

_ "Get in the car," he ordered._

_ She was already trotting to the front door. "Yes, Papa."_

_ His government-issue sedan was parked in the garage below. She crawled into the backseat and Eli drove and drove in the night. It was silent save for the hum of the engine. Tel Aviv faded away. Ziva recognized the highway along the coast—Hertzaliya, Netanya, Hadera, Zichron Ya'akov—and then they left the freeway._

_She closed her throbbing eyes. The car slowed and then stopped. She looked around—a newly paved road, some low-lying scrub, emptiness. There were no lights on the horizon. _

_Eli turned in the driver's seat and slapped her leg. "Get out."_

_She stiffened, terrified. "Please, Papa," she begged, crying again. "Please, no. I am so sorry. Please, no."_

"_Out!" he ordered. _

_She got out of the car barefoot and still in pajamas. It was cold. She had no coat. She closed the door and he sped away, taillights disappearing into the desert night. Ziva sobbed and sobbed with her thumb in her mouth, plugging the sound in case an enemy was listening. What would they do with a little Israeli girl? A little Jew-child? _

_Her tears tapered off. She sucked in a breath, taking stock. There hadn't been any buildings in a long while. Perhaps they were in-between places. Had they been almost to a town when he'd made her get out? A base? A border? She set off in the opposite direction from which they'd come. Her small bare feet slapped on the cold macadam. Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps she only needed to figure it all out and apologize and Papa would come to take her home. She counted her steps first in Hebrew, then in English, but she got to sixty and couldn't go any higher. What came after that? _

_She stopped and looked around, confused. There was a narrow drive off to the left. Suspicion set in, then familiarity. She knew where she was, even though she could not read the sign under the fancy light. Ziva did not read well. Eli did not hide his disappointment in her mediocre school marks._

_She skipped up the long, rocky driveway but stopped on the front porch. It was early. _Too _early. There would be no one at the front desk at this hour. Should she wait? The air was colder with the approaching dawn and she shivered. _

_Ziva tiptoed around to the back of the building, where a smaller porch and red door lead to Dod and Doda's living quarters. Steeling herself, she tapped shyly on the door. There was no noise from inside. She tapped again—louder, more insistent—and Ayelet opened the door in her long white nightgown. Ziva sucked in a breath, awash in relief and happiness. _

"_Doda!" she breathed. "Hi. I am happy to see you!" She reached for her. Ayelet stepped away, brows drawn over her pale blue eyes._

"_What are you doing here?"_

_Ziva cowered, stung. "Papa left me on the road."_

"_He did _what_?"_

"_He left me on the road." Her tears returned. "He was angry and he left me on the road. May I come in, please? I am cold."_

_Ayelet shoved her away. "No, you can't. Get out of here. And stop writing me those letters. If I find another one in my post box I will burn it up." She slammed the door and Ziva, heartbroken, began to cry._

. . . .

Ziva jolted herself awake—jolted them _both_ awake—and cried out a low sound. Lamenting. The sound of a child woken and forgotten. Ayelet spooned her close, smiling a little, and whispered _sha, my baby_.

Was she gleeful? Perhaps. No more Eli. No more waiting in the cook's pantry for him to come and tear Ziva from her arms. No more desperate letters—_please let me come live with you doda I will be so good I promise—_no more plans made in the dead of night, no more black market passports and plane tickets, no more introducing her to hotel guests as _my niece, Ziva_. No more. Eli was dead and buried like a common soldier at Har Hertzl Cemetery. Would his soul have an _aliyah_? Maybe not. He'd desecrated God's name. A _chillul Hashem_. May he lose his share in the World To Come.

The air changed and there was Tony, peeking in. The door no longer creaked when it opened; good, kind, gruff Gibbs had oiled the hinges, having seen how badly the noise startled Ziva. He oiled it while he wore his daughter in a pouch on his chest. Ayelet watched and was seized by a sudden wash of jealousy; she would've loved to wear Ziva like that.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking the needleless syringe he offered. "You are going to work now?"

"Yeah," he whispered back. He gazed at Ziva in love and worry. "You'll call if you need anything, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed confidently. "I suspect the fever will break sometime today. I may need you to help give her a bath later."

He stepped back and she noticed what a handsome man he was. Handsome and _forlorn_; Ziva jumped a mile and moaned every time he touched her. "Um," he fumbled. "Maybe it's better if we call Abby to help. Or maybe she'll feel up to taking care of it herself by then—never know, right?"

"Right," she agreed. "She loves you, Tony. Please don't forget that."

"I don't want to scare her anymore," he said quietly.

She glanced down. Ziva had fallen deep asleep with her head pillowed on Ayelet's soft shoulder. "She's not afraid of you," she assured. "It's the PTSD—her body can't stop responding like it's under attack. Give her time."

He nodded. "Give her kisses for me," he whispered, and slipped out the door.

Ayelet jostled Ziva and gave her the meds, then sat up so she could speak and be understood. "I want you to sit up," she said firmly. "You have been lying down for so long that you got sick. I will help you, but you must sit up and take deep breaths." She stacked pillows. So _many_ pillows—had Ziva ever been allowed such comfort before? Likely not. "Up you go," she said.

Ziva blinked and levered herself up, only to flop back down.

"_Oy_," Ayelet uttered. "So _chalash_. Let me help you." She pulled and pushed. Ziva's skin was hot beneath her hands but the pillows were cool and soft and then she was seated, eyes wide and blinking.

"See?" she prodded. "Now you can look out the window. It's overcast, but your friend Tim said we should see some sunbreaks by this afternoon. Do you miss the sun? Maybe we should open the windows for some fresh air." She cocked her head. "No, too cold for you. Oh, that reminds me—Tim brought over some gifts for Sara and one of them is this thing to keep her warm in the stroller. It looks like a sleeping bag with a hood, but it has slots in the back so she can be buckled in safely and it's just _so_ adorable. She looks like a little bug when she's inside. That's what Tony calls her, isn't it—Bug?"

Ziva only blinked. Ayelet's smile faded. "Why won't you talk to me, Ziv'keh? Are you angry at me?"

Something flashed across her face—fear, regret, anxiety—and she shook her head.

"Are you having pain?"

She looked down at the blankets.

Ayelet gasped aloud, appalled and embarrassed. "Ziv'keh! Why didn't you tell me, _motek_? Should I go right now and get you some Percocet? It's time for your other medications, too. I can get them for you, but I'll have to leave the room. Are you ok with that?"

She shook her head without lifting it.

"No? Do you want to come with me?"

Another head shake.

"Well we're at a real _machloket_ here, Zivaleh. I can't be in two places at once. You have ten seconds to make your decision or I will make it for you."

Gibbs knocked on the doorframe before time was up. Ziva jumped. He gave her a soft look and held out three syringes to Ayelet—Percocet, Xanax, Lexapro. "Thought you might need these."

"Yes," she answered gratefully. "She does." She gave them to Ziva one by one and knew what made him such a good father. "Where's the little one?"

"Beanbag," he answered, eyes on Ziva. "Lookin' better, Ziver."

Ziva's eyes flitted. Ayelet withheld the urge to nudge her—_Say thank you, Ziv'keh_—and pushed a swath of curls behind her good ear. "She does. I'm grateful. Perhaps she'll be up and about later."

He took Ziva's hand. "I gotta find Sar and me a place to live. You have any special requests?" Ayelet pressed the tablet into her hands, but she only stared, vacant.

Gibbs palmed Ziva's good cheek and kissed her head. "She'll speak up when she's ready. Text if you need me."

Ziva jumped again as if startled. She took the tablet, switched it on, and tapped unsteadily before holding it out to him. _I want to see Sara in the stroller thing_.

He smiled. "Be right back."

Ayelet smoothed Ziva's hands in her own. The right one was curled in a half-fist. "Good, my baby. I am proud of you." Ziva coiled against her and sighed.

Gibbs returned with her in the stroller. Sara was zipped inside a colorful, child-sized sleeping bag. The hood was up and loose around her wild curls. Only her face was visible, and she was smiley and pink-cheeked after a good night's sleep.

"Hi, Zeeba," she said brightly. "This is my new blanket. Tim bought it for me 'cause my big cast fell off and I was cold." She paused and fished a wooden horse out of the folds. "But now I'm not. Here. This is for you." She gave the toy to Ayelet who passed it to Ziva.

A tiny smile lit her greenish, healing face. _Thank you_, she tapped. _When will you be home_?

Gibbs smirked. "When we find a house. Ready, sweet pea?"

"Yeah. Be good, Zeeba."

Gibbs kissed Ziva's head again and left. She blinked at the empty room for a second and then typed more on the tablet and handed it to Ayelet. _Would you have one of those for me_?

Ayelet laughed and bathed Ziva's face and hands with a damp cloth. "I would if we needed one but we live in the desert, Ziv'keh. It is _hot_."

She nodded. _What did you have for me?_

"All kinds of things. A stroller, a bassinet, a crib and layette we ordered from Europe. And the _clothes_, Zivaleh—so many you can't even imagine. I had so many sleepers and bodysuits that you outgrew before you could wear them. I donated bags of items to a _gemach_ with the tags still attached. As you got bigger I had lots of separates—tops and pants and skirts with little frilly bloomers to go underneath—and I had a bunch of cute little bathing suits for you. One was printed with cherries all over—it must've come from Europe, too—and another was blue with stars on it. You were brave in the water even as a little baby."

She shook her head, thinking. _When did Papa take me_?

"Just before your first birthday. You took your first steps in the morning and he came in the afternoon."

_Why?_

Sadness drew around Ayelet like a shroud. "He did not say. I was so sad, Zivaleh. You were my _baby_. You can't understand how it felt to lose you."

She stared, brow furrowed. _When did you get me back?_

"A month later. You stayed for two weeks and then he took you again." Tears blurred her vision. Was that how Ziva saw things now? "I hid with you when he came back. I carried you into the pantry and hoped he would forget or give up. I did not want to let you go."

_Was he hurting me then_?

"I didn't find bruises that time, but..." she paused to take a breath. "But the second time you came—you were about eighteen months old—you ran to me as soon as you were out of the car and wouldn't let go. There were bruises on your neck and legs. It took two days for anyone to be able to touch you but me."

_You could not stop him._

"We did everything we could think of, Zivaleh."

Her eyes darkened and her shoulders tensed. She looked away, blinking. Her breath quickened. Ayelet put her hand to her cheek but Ziva yelped and drew back sharply.

"Sha, baby," she soothed, but to no avail. Ziva panted and gripped the quit in weak, sweaty fists. "Sha," Ayelet said again. "You are fine. You are here with me and you're safe. Take a breath now, Ziv'keh."

Her chest hitched and she coughed a broken, hitching sob. Her left hand covered her face, but she bumped her chapped lower lip and pulled back, hissing. A tiny pinprick of blood appeared. Ayelet dabbed at it with a tissue. "Ziv'keh," she repeated. "You're ok."

Ziva began to pant. Her hand found her broken ribs and stayed there. Ayelet reached for her again, but she reeled back and made a high, fearful sound. A _feral_ sound. One heard only once before, when Ziva was six and came to them in the wee hours of the morning with both eyes blackened and her back lashed and bleeding. Worse was the haunted, hunted look on her little face and the sound she'd made the first time Ayelet tried to sweep her into a hug. _That_ sound.

Ayelet shushed her. "_Motek_?"

Ziva's eyes roamed. She gulped and moaned.

"_Motek_? You're home. You're safe. Take a breath."

She sucked in a big, shaky lungful and blew it out. Her lips pursed. Ayelet hoped it meant she was healing. Healing and _present_. "Zivaleh, do you know where you are?"

She gulped and nodded.

"Good. May I lie with you now?"

Ziva nodded again. Ayelet curled up on the mattress and put her hand on her brow. Hot. Still. How many hours ago had Ducky diagnosed her with bronchitis and prescribed antibiotics? _Twenty-four hours_, he'd promised. _And the fever should break. Then I recommend a warm bath_. Ziva coughed and caught her breath.

"Zivaleh?" she began quietly. "Did Papa hurt you often?"

She nodded, eyes downcast. _Every day, _she tapped.

Ziva rolled off her bank of pillows and curled on her side. The tablet computer landed text to her. She tapped on it for a moment, sniffling, and then slid it across the blankets to Ayelet. The cursor blinked. _He found a letter I wrote once. He was angry. He got me out of bed late and told me I had broken the Commandments. He told me you did not want me._

Ayelet grabbed her hand. "I wanted you more than anything in the world, Zivaleh. More than _anything_. And he should talk about Commandments—when he hurt you he made a _chillul Hashem_, Zivi. We don't even need to mention the other terrible _aveirot_ he committed. He has given up his place in _Olam haBa_." She shifted onto one hip and wrapped an arm around her. "Let me hold you."

Ziva snuggled in and sighed. Ayelet kissed her head. "My brave girl. I hate what he did to you, but can we think about this as starting over?"

Ziva blinked and shrugged.

Ayelet kissed her temple delicately. "I wanted all those years to be able to hold you and now I can." Ziva teared up again, but Ayelet shook her head. "No, _motek._ That is enough crying. Breathe and let _Doda_ hold you. After your rest we will make the Shabbat meals. Ok?"

Ziva exhaled. Her shoulders stopped shaking and she gulped.

"That is a good girl. Shall I sing to you?" She nodded, and Ayelet began:

_Laila, laila. Itzmi et einayich_.

_Laila, laila. b'derech elayich._

_The horsemen are coming, my child._

. . . .

Ziva slept and woke again to sun on her face. Her pulse picked up—Doda Ayla was gone—but Gibbs stood at the bedside with Sara drooping in his arms. "Hey," he said softly. "Ayelet wants you to get up."

She sat. Her back hurt. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rested her weight on her palms.

He put out a hand. "C'mon, Ziver."

His palm was rough in hers, but steady. She got to her feet and swayed. The rug was soft.

"Good," he praised. "Aylet's making soup. She said she wants you to help." He offered his arm. "Ready?"

No, she wasn't. She needed to use the restroom. She _wanted_ to freshen up. She pointed at the ensuite and gave a little shrug.

He smirked. "I'll wait."

A single, shy glance in the mirror revealed that she didn't look nearly as monstrous as she felt. Her face was puffy but not unrecognizable. She'd long since stopped wearing the cover over her bad ear, though the packing remained. A pair of sunglasses would go a long way to conceal the eye shield. The bruises were shadows. Bad light would hide most of them.

She poked at the appliance in her mouth. It didn't so much as wiggle. She peeled her cheek back and poked at the tube-and-piston setup on one side, then the other. Her molars didn't meet because of the acrylic glued over them. She frowned; she didn't _have_ molars on the left side. A space maintainer kept her other teeth from moving around before she could get more implants. That would make five total. She was putting her oral surgeon's kids through college.

"Ziver?"

She jumped; how long had it been?

"Ziver, my native is restless. You comin' out of there, or what?"

She stepped out, blinking in the sunlight; he'd opened the rest of the blinds. "C'mon," he said, offering his arm again. She took it and he guided her out the door, down the hallway, into the main living area, where Doda Ayla was stirring Ziva's biggest stockpot on a back burner.

"Well hello, _cholmani_. I'm happy to see you. Come—help me put the _kneidlach_ together."

Ziva stepped forward and pressed her fingers into a bowl of matzo meal, egg, water, and salt. No—she couldn't do this. Her splint would get full of dough. She held it up to Doda, who frowned, took it off, and put it on the windowsill.

"Dig in," she said. "Do the best you can. The eggs were large so you shouldn't have to squeeze tight."

She scooped up a handful with her left hand and used the right to form a ball. Or sort of a ball—for rugby, maybe?

"In the broth," Doda prodded.

There was a second, smaller pot of chicken broth simmering on the stove. Ziva dropped it in. A splash sizzled on the burner grate.

Doda slid the bowl at her. "_Yallah_, Ziv'keh. You can do it."

Slowly, tentatively, as though diffusing a bomb, she rolled sixteen _kneidlach_ and put the lid on the pot. The timer was set for twenty minutes and she stepped back, sighing.

Gibbs shifted into her line of sight, still with his daughter in his arms, but now she wore a little pink swimsuit rather than a colorful playdress. Ziva nearly gasped aloud; Sara looked wasted, like she'd been held captive for months. She dangled in his arms like a puppet but smiled around the pacifier, which she pulled out of her mouth.

"We are going swimming," she announced. "You should come."

Ziva had purchased her condo because of the pool but rarely used it. A swim sounded pleasant, though.

"Go," Doda ordered from behind her. She had Ziva's sheets in her arms. "Change into a suit and go swim. You need to move, Ziv'keh."

She ducked her head, ashamed; never in her life had she been so inert. Doda started the washer and took Ziva's hands in hers. "Go change your clothes. I will walk you downstairs when you're ready. Go ahead, Gibbs—the baby is getting impatient."

She looked; Sara had begun to wheedle and pout. Ziva hadn't heard it. Irritation pulled at her—she was beginning to hate how disconnected she felt—and she spun around to the bedroom. Dizziness did not stop her; she _would_ swim, dammit, even if it meant she slept for a month afterward.

Ziva tugged on a modest one-piece while Doda fished out the matzo balls and turned the soup down to a simmer. A hunk of brisket rested on the counter. Cloves of garlic had been peeled; she could smell them.

Doda Ayla took her arm. "Let's go. Sara is probably dying for you to join her."

Ziva ignored her arm and took her hand instead. Together they took the elevator to the mezzanine level, where a lap pool, a hot tub, and a sauna lay beyond a green glass door. She could hear Sara's little voice echoing off the travertine walls.

"Zeeba!" she cheered. "I can blow bubbles! Watch." Gibbs held her belly-down. She dipped her lower face in the water and blew, then popped up, grinning. "See?"

Ziva gave her two thumbs up and lowered herself to the edge. The water was warm. She eased in and...oh. That was nice. Her ribs stopped their persistent aching. Some of the tension leeched from her battered muscles.

Doda sat, rolled up her pants, and plunked her legs in the water. "So warm," she mused. "As warm as home."

Gibbs smirk turned into a genuine smile. "Consider the audience," he mused, swirling Sara around. He held her out to Ziva mid-swish. "Here, take her."

She shook her head. Was he crazy, handing his feeble, fragile little girl over to someone who hadn't put proper clothes on in weeks?

"Take her," he said again. It wasn't negotiable. "Swim with her. She missed you, Ziver."

Sara came easily into her arms. "My Zeeba," she sighed, patting gently. Her pale, froggish legs floated bonelessly on the surface.

Ziva coughed; the chlorine was irritating. She took a breath and swallowed, nervous. "Kick," she said softly. A pleasant surprise—her speech was not nearly as garbled as she thought it would be. "Kick," she said again.

But Sara clung to her shoulders. "No, Zeeba."

"Kick," she said again, firmly. "You can."

Her tiny brow furrowed in concentration. "I can't."

"You can," Ziva repeated. "Kick, _shaifeleh_. Move your legs."

The furrow grew deeper. Sara peered over Ziva's shoulder at her pale legs and wiggled her toes.

Ziva flipped her around to face away from her and pushed off the floor. They drifted backward together. "Kick," she commanded. "You can."

Sara tensed. Her right knee bent and flexed. The movement was minute—imperceptible to a bystander, even—but it was there. She did it again and switched legs. Her left side was weaker, but she kicked nonetheless.

Ziva changed directions and pushed off again, but Sara was already tired and simply bobbed along. She shifted her over to Gibbs, who kissed her wet cheek and grinned. "Feel good to be finally moving, sweet pea?"

She put her head on his chest. "Yeah."

He scooped her out of the pool and headed for the hot tub. Doda Ayla gasped. "Gibbs, you can't put a baby in there! It's too hot for her. She'll get scalded."

"She's fine," he argued evenly. "Doc said hot baths will help."

He turned on the jets and took five shallow steps down, then bent his knees and dipped Sara to her shoulders. She went limp. "Nice," she mused. He sat and she sighed.

Ziva joined them and was blissful in the heat. Doda Ayla sat on the edge near her and rubbed her shoulders. "After this, a bath, Ziv'keh. And moisturizer. I brought extra from Israel. I'll leave a few bottles with you."

Gibbs stood and wrapped a towel around Sara before getting out. "Time to go," he announced gently. She was nearly asleep on his chest. Before he could put on a shirt, though, the glass door swung open and there was Tony, still in a suit and carrying his go-bag. He held his arms out wide.

"Hey, get back in there. A DiNozzo never misses a party."

He shook his head. "Nope; she's almost out. See you upstairs."

Doda Ayla jumped up and stepped back into a confiscated pair of Ziva's flip-flops. "I should check the brisket. Bring her up when she's ready, Tony. I have salads and spreads to prepare."

She scurried away—Doda never moved at less than a hustle—and they were alone. Ziva stared, nearly naked and vulnerable.

"Hi," Tony said quietly.

She blinked at him and would've ground her teeth in guilt and shame at the sight of his shy smile. Was she the reason he looked so scared?

"Haven't seen you in a while," he said. "Not like, _awake_, anyway. Or not crying."

She looked down. The timer ran out and the jets switched off. She felt even more naked; if she stood up he would see the boot-prints still etched on her side and back.

He held out a towel. "Wanna get out, or do I need to join you in there?"

She rose and went to him. He wrapped the towel tenderly around her shoulders and was careful to keep his hands where she could see them. She jumped, regardless, and tears pricked behind her eyes; she was being _horrible_ to him.

"It's ok," he said softly. "I know you can't help it."

Ziva cried. She hated herself, but she hated what Eli had done to her—what he'd _had _done to her—even more. "I am sorry," she said, striving for clarity. "I am so sorry, Tony."

She didn't expect him to grin so widely and duck his head so she could see. "It's not your fault," he replied. He sounded so sure that she only cried harder. "It's not your fault. It's Eli's fault, and Saleem Ulman's fault, and his _men's_ fault, but it's not _your_ fault. Do me a favor and stop feeling guilty."

She snorted—was it really so simple? No. Was she willing to try for him? For his sweet, earnest face and chlorine-wet dress shirt? Yes. She let her head fall against his chest and still he did not touch her. That was ok, though. It was safe.

The stood together for a long moment, Ziva only breathing, Tony humming an old song under his breath, until he cleared his throat. "Should we go upstairs?"

His voice resonated in his broad chest. She heard a smile in it. "Yes," she slurred, suddenly exhausted.

They took the elevator. Ziva's apartment smelled like food. Like _Shabbat_ food. Her stomach growled.

Doda Ayla had showered; her curls were still damp. Ziva knew she treated her hair with Moroccan oil to keep it from getting frizzy. Maybe she would use some, too, after her bath. "I laid out fresh towels," she said, lifting the brisket from the oven. "Put them in the wash when you're finished, Ziv'keh. Tony, she will need help to wash her hair. I'm giving you that job."

"You ok with that?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "Careful. My head is still...sore."

He smirked. "You sound like Sara."

She ran the water herself and made him wait until she'd peeled off her wet suit before letting him in. Some steam escaped the open door. She stepped quickly into the tub and slid beneath the surface. "Ok," she said.

He inched in like Frankenstein, eyes closed, hands out before him. "You ok? Can I like, squint? Are you ok with that?"

"You can look," Ziva allowed heavily. She wet a washcloth and applied some of the gentle soap Doda left for her, but her arms grew tired and her right wrist began to ache sharply. She'd need some acetaminophen with her night meds, probably.

Tony sat on the closed toilet lid. "May I?" he asked.

Shame clouded her vision but she handed the cloth over. He took it and washed her neck, shoulders, and back, hissing at some of the deeper bruises that hadn't yet faded. He grazed the one on her throat and apologized.

She nodded. "Keep going."

"Yeah," he agreed. "You've been a little jumpy lately."

She swallowed. "My body thinks...that everything is a threat. Worse if I lie down."

"So we'll buy one of those La-Z-Boy recliners and you can sleep in that," he joked.

She smiled, indulging him. "Perhaps we will buy two."

"One for you, one for Ayelet?"

She stilled his hand and took a breath. "I love you."

He smiled and hung his head. "I love you, too. I missed you. I still kinda miss you."

"I am sorry."

"Stop. It's not your fault." He wiped his hands on a towel. "How should we wash your hair?"

She looked around and pointed at the vanity.

He pulled a towel down for her. "You gonna be ok with me standing over you like that?"

"I cannot lift my arms," she replied sullenly.

"I can get Ayelet to do it."

She mustered her courage. It would be difficult, but she could get through it. "No, you. She is happy cooking."

He draped a second towel over her head. "She's happy taking care of you."

He left. She got out, dried off, and wrapped a heavy terrycloth robe around herself. Tony returned with a chair and she sank into it, grateful. She would not make it through dinner.

He helped her lean back. The edge of the sink dug into the tendons in her neck. "Tell me to stop if it's too much."

She counted breaths while he wet her hair and counted strokes as he washed it. Anxiety ebbed and flowed. Another towel appeared. She was going to run out of them soon. He turbaned it around her head and gave a tiny smile. "Ok."

Ziva sat up. "Ok."

He'd laid out clothes for her—yoga pants, a t-shirt, a sweater—and turned away while she dressed herself. He held up the eye shield she'd picked off before her bath. "We should do this now," he said apologetically.

"Ok," she agreed lowly, feeling more self-conscious than she had in the bathtub. Her damaged left eye was the only injury that made her worry about the long term. She couldn't open it; whoever applied the prescription eye drops had to peel it open with their fingers. When they did, she only saw indistinct shapes and shadows. Headaches persisted. The ophthalmologist recommended she keep it covered until the swelling went down.

She stepped close to Tony and tilted her head back, silently granting permission to tend to her. He did, and chanced a kiss to her brow.

Ziva sighed and leaned into him, but he pulled back before she could get comfortable. "I know you're beat, but Ayelet will have my ass if you don't eat something."

"I know," she whispered. "The Friday night meal is important to her."

He smiled and pulled her close again. "She wants to share it with her daughter."

"Stay here for a moment? Please?" She tucked her head under his chin. The blinds were still open. Night was coming, but for now the sunset was enough.

Tony exhaled and his chest collapsed. His arms tightened but it did not hurt her broken ribs. "Yeah," he said roughly. "Yeah. I want to stay here with you."


	20. Two Kids

**Hey everybody! I have missed you all very much. Sometimes, when I'm drinking my coffee or wandering around the neighborhood I think, "How are all those people doing out there on the internet?" And the universe says, "Well write 'em a story and they'll probably tell you."**

**So I did and gosh darn it, I hope you like it. Lots of hugs to you, me**

**. . . .**

_My Daddy's house_

_is the safest of houses._

_-"Two Kids," Anaïs Mitchell._

Gibbs grinned down at Sara and she grinned back, snug in her bundler and colorful knit cap. He'd swapped strollers with McGee's help, stashing the jogger in the back of his car and switching to a four-wheeler with a reversible seat. The physical therapist thought Sara needed to sit up more, gain more perspective, more strength, more interaction with her environment. She'd also written a prescription for a pediatric wheelchair. It was creased neatly in his wallet among dollar bills and insurance cards.

"Ready, sweet pea?"

She smiled up at him and let her head fall against the backrest. He liked being able to face her. "Yeah. Blustery day, Daddy."

It was windy. Dry leaves blew down the block. The sun shone, but clouds on the horizon meant a grey sky by lunchtime. Gibbs thought he smelled snow. "It is. You sure you want to walk today?"

"Yes," she said decisively. "But coffee first."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled good-naturedly—she knew his routine too well—and made a left into her favorite coffee shop. A middle-aged woman held the door for them. She bent over the stroller and cooed at Sara, smiling. "What a beautiful baby," she sighed. "How old is she?"

"Five. A very small five."

Her smile soured. "Five? In a stroller? Why on earth—"

"None of your business," he said mildly.

She harrumphed and swept away. Sara gave him a stinkeye. "You don't like her." Was he being scolded? Possibly. She didn't suffer fools gladly.

"I don't like people who won't mind their own business, sweet pea."

She ignored him and examined the offerings in the pastry case. A cinnamon roll with a tiny dent in the icing had been her undoing yesterday. He hoped not to replay the simpering near-tantrum.

"Want anything?"

Sara pushed the blanket down. "A poppin-cake."

"Nope. Pick something else."

She huffed, arms crossed. "A sprinkle cookie. A big one."

Gibbs ordered her cookie and a bottle of milk before parking them both at a table. "Kiddo," he said after a long draught of coffee. "We need to campfire."

There was already a ring of colorful sprinkles around her mouth. "What's that?"

"It's when we have an important talk."

"Oh. Like when we saw Kelly and Mommy."

He gaped for a second. _Mommy_. Not _Shannon_. "Uh, yeah, sweet pea. Like that. But I want to talk about what Julie said yesterday."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"You're not doing great, baby girl, and no one can figure out why."

Sara tensed. "Because Mr. Godwin hurt me and my bones are all bad!" she growled. "I _hate_ him!"

A man frowned at her from behind his laptop. Two college-aged women stopped their conversation. Gibbs shot them hard glares and turned back to his daughter. "I am sorry he hurt you, but your hips are better. It's time to get moving."

"I don't _walk!"_ she declared angrily.

He took her tiny, birdy arm and laid it across her palm. Her elbow was dimpled like a baby's. "Will you try?"

Sara fell silent for a long time. "I don't want to fall down," she admitted softly.

"Would I let that happen, baby girl?"

She blinked up at him, eyes wet and grey. "No."

He gave her a tiny smile. "No?"

She took a shuddery breath and held her cookie out to him. "No. I wanna go. I wanna get a new house."

"With smooth floors," he said, unlocking the brakes. He dropped his coffee in the stroller's cup holder. Twenty bucks well spent.

"And a tree by my window," she finished.

They walked four short blocks to where Ziva's gentrifying neighborhood bumped up against an older one. Mature trees lined the street. Families wanted the schools and the zip code. Rachel the realtor waved at them from in front of the sixth house on the right.

"Good morning," she chirped. Chirped. She was a nervous, birdlike woman, with long dark hair and narrow features. "How do you feel about center-hall colonials?"

"Does it have smooth floors?" Sara piped up.

She smiled, charmed, and popped open the key box. "This one doesn't, but there's another across the street that's been renovated."

"Don't bother," Gibbs said. "Show me the renno."

She snapped it shut and led him back up the street, where a whitewashed brick house loomed over a shady lawn. It had been raked clean of leaves. The sidewalk was wide and even. The first floor was a great room renovation with a kitchen at the back done in granite and sea-green glass.

"Daddy," Sara gasped. "Look at the smooth floors!"

He did—cherry hardwood. The room itself was light-filled and airy. He would have to buy more furniture to match his new couch.

He nodded at Rachel. "Garage?"

"Three-car, out back. Big, level yard with plenty of room for a swing set."

He scooped Sara out of the stroller. She curled against him. "Bedrooms?"

"Upstairs."

They clomped up the wide, shiny staircase. He'd have to put something down for traction. They peered into the first room—big, with high windows and crown molding—and Sara crowed happily. "It's Zeeba's room! This is where she can sleep with Yaffa."

"You think she'll like it, kiddo?"

"Yeah. She has to have sleepovers when Tony goes away for work."

He nodded, thinking whether the bed should go under the window or against the wall. "Where's your room?"

"Um," Rachel interrupted delicately. "You don't want to see the master suite?"

"Nope."

She stared openly at how Sara listed on him, her curly head propped against his chest, her arms floppy, his wrapped protectively around her. _Go ahead_, he dared silently. _Say something_.

She fidgeted. "There is a smaller room that adjoins the master. Would that be ideal for Sara?"

"Yeah."

She pushed open a door to his left and exposed a medium-sized bedroom with east-facing windows and a skylight. "I think the previous owners used it as a nursery," she said uneasily. "I know she's not a baby, but it might be nice to stay...close by."

"Yeah, it would. What do you think, Sar?"

"This is my room," she said seriously. "Tony needs to paint it for me and Zeeba can put my _mezuzah_."

"Her what?"

He shrugged and switched shoulders. "Jewish thing. Can I make an offer?"

"Absolutely," Rachel gushed. "But there's a fourth bedroom and a huge walk-in closet, a media room in the basement, storage, and the garage..."

"Just an offer," he said firmly.

"Understood. Let's go down to the kitchen. I have all the paperwork with me."

He made a competitive offer, signed at all the Xs, and buckled Sara back into the stroller. She drooped. He reclined her seat, drew down the sunshade, and shook Rachel's hand.

"Bye, Sara," she called happily. She'd make a nice buck on his purchase. "Make sure you tell your friend to get out his paintbrush."

The sun was a little brighter. Gibbs set off back toward Ziva's, but bought a coffee and decided a detour. He walked around and around what would be their neighborhood, familiarizing himself, creating a jogging route. He found the school Sara might attend, the library, and the closest park with a playground. It was an easy walk to the central business district, where Sara could get ice cream or buy some new picture books. It was good, he decided. It was right. For everyone.

Sara slept through all of it. She slept right up until he pulled up in front of Ziva's apartment door. Noise on the other side meant Ziva was awake and upset.

"Daddy?" she whimpered, still half-asleep.

He sighed. "It's ok, sweet pea. I think Ziva lost her self-control."

She nodded knowingly. The noise grew louder when he inched the door open—insistent weeping, a few garbled words, Ayelet's quiet assurances. He parked the stroller against the wall and plucked Sara from the bundler folds. A few stray crumbs of cookie clung to her clothing. He brushed them off over the sink, where Ayelet bumped him aside and dampened a cloth with cold water.

"She's torn a page from Sara's book," she said sadly. "We're into tantrums today. Her _having_ them, me _dealing_ with them."

Ziva was sitting at the counter, head in her hands, shoulders bucking with sobs. She was long past the point of consolation. They'd just have to ride it out until she crashed. Gibbs' heart panged for her as he plunked Sara down in a special feeding chair and handed her a few animals to keep busy.

Ayelet peeled back the eye patch and cleaned Ziva's streaky, puffy face while he cut cucumber into quarters and reheated leftover chicken. "Zivaleh," she fussed. "You are too upset. It is time to calm down now."

Another sob. She trembled so hard her chair shook.

"Sha, my baby. Can you listen to me?"

_Hell no_, Gibbs thought, mashing a microwaved sweet potato.

Ayelet put the cloth aside and made Ziva stand up. "I know you're upset," she said, brushing her hair back. "I know you're upset, but you have had a stressful morning and did not get the rest you need. I want you to go in your bed and lie down, Zivaleh."

Gibbs put Sara's plate down and looked up in time to see Ziva fix Ayelet with a defiant look. Her good eye narrowed. He wanted to smirk. _Get 'em, Ziver_.

Ayelet did not back down. "Go," she said again. "_Yallah_, Ziv'keh. I love you very much, but you are out of control. Go to your bed. I will be in as soon as I plan dinner." Ziva turned, but hesitated. "_La'lechet lishon_. I will come in a moment."

She listed away, still sniveling, while Gibbs washed the knife and cutting board and Ayelet fell into her abandoned chair. He put a plate in front of Sara. "Did you just send a former Mossad assassin to her room?"

"Yes, Gibbs, I did," she replied tightly. "Because she needed it. Tony and I took Zivaleh to therapy this morning. Needless to say, it did not go well."

Sara watched with wide, seawater eyes and scooped mashed sweet potato onto her tiny spoon. "Zeeba had a bad fit," she worried.

"How long?" Gibbs asked.

She made coffee. "An hour. Zivaleh is nothing if not persistent. I hope she falls asleep before I go in there. I want her to calm herself rather than relying on the medication to do it for her."

"What's she so upset about?"

Ayelet blew out a breath and smiled wryly. "That I wouldn't let her carry a knife. _To bed_. In her _own home_."

He grimaced. "Where's DiNozzo now?"

"Out. I told him to go when I noticed the signs of an imminent _cheima shafucha_. He could not take another one of her meltdowns."

Gibbs grunted and looked down. Sara made a volcano of her food. "Hey," he said softly. "Don't make a mess. Are you finished?"

"Wan'milk," she said quietly, chastened.

Ayelet had a sipper prepared for him. He sat on the couch and cradled his daughter in his arms while she prepared two mugs and put one on the coffee table for him. "Did you find a house?"

"Yeah, couple blocks over. Ziver can walk to us."

"Good. She'll want you close."

He nodded. "What happened in therapy?"

She threw up her hands. "She cannot talk about Eli or what he did to her. The therapist asked and Zivi just looked around like she had no idea where she was." Her eyes wandered. Gibbs tightened his grip on dangling, sleeping Sara. "She cannot even tell us what makes her feel safe. I'm positive it has nothing to do with that knife."

"She doesn't know," he said quietly.

She eyed Sara. "You have been through this."

"Yep."

"Does it get easier? "

"Guess so."

"Do the tantrums stop?"

"Not totally."

She blinked, eyes wet. "Will she eventually learn that we love her? That we will protect her?"

Sara's thumb went into her mouth. She looked at him with wide, adoring eyes and he kissed her head. "Yeah, but you'll need to keep reminding her. She'll need you around for a while."

Ayelet nodded. "Ziva will need a number of procedures yet. Her mouth, her eye... she will need someone to help her. I think my stay will be longer than expected."

Neither of them expected Tony to crash through the front door. Sara startled and squeaked. She watched as Tony lugged in two bags and a box from the toy store near his condo. "Blizzard alert," he announced. "It's _The Big One_, Boss. The freeways are closing, schools, government offices. Vance called, said not to come in. I've got a sled-dog team on standby for emergencies." He put down his packages and tugged on a cap with earflaps. "Is there enough food? Should I mush to the market?"

Ayelet smiled. "There is plenty of food, Tony. Come sit down while I check on Zivaleh."

His grin faded. He flopped down and put his hands out. "Bug?" Gibbs held her out. She went to him easily and sighed. He made a face. "Man, Boss, she's like a wet noodle. And our wedding is postponed indefinitely. Zi's not...ready."

"Yeah."

Tony hugged Sara closer. "She can't see very well. It's something about the muscles around her eye. They want to do surgery next week. I hired a musher in case the snow gets bad so she can still get to her appointment."

Gibbs swallowed coffee. "She'll be ok, DiNozzo. I put an offer on a house today. Be a few weeks before we close."

"Nice," he said happily. "Got extra rooms?"

"Realtor said something about a media room in the basement."

He smiled through his obvious sorrow. "You hear that, Bug? You and Zi and I are gonna watch movies while she gets better."

She threw her arms out. "Poppin movies."

"_Madagascar, Mr. Popper's Penguins, Happy Feet_.You get first pick, Buglet."

Gibbs stroked her curls. "What about Ziver's hearing?"

"We'll know more next week. She's got appointments up the wazoo." He ran a hand over his hair and brushed it back into place. He motioned futilely, helplessly. "You should've seen her outside today, Boss. She wouldn't move a muscle without someone to hang on to."

"Scared the hell out of you."

"She's not _Ziva_."

"Yeah she is."

"She _hid behind me_."

He glared. "She can't _see_. She was asking you to lead, DiNozzo. Would she do that if she didn't trust you?"

Something dawned in his green eyes and he shrugged. Sara pulled her thumb from her mouth and strained to sit up. Tony helped. "I did some shopping today, Bug."

"Did you buy me something?"

"Yeah. Want to see?"

Gibbs shifted uncomfortably. "Didn't have to do that, DiNozzo."

"My Bug has been so good with everything that's been going on that I just couldn't help myself." He pulled a square package out of one bag, stripped off the plastic wrap, and assembled foam puzzle pieces into a kind of mat. He spread it on the floor in front of the sofa. "It's an _activity mat_," he said grandly. "A nice, soft place to play." He snatching another bag and dumped it over. Out tumbled a waterfall of black-and-white fluff. Penguins. Stuffed ones. A family.

Sara gasped. Her tiny hands flew up over her mouth. "Poppins!"

He went to his knees behind them. "Yeah. Come get 'em."

Gibbs smirked at him and put her belly-down on the mat. "Go ahead, sweet pea."

Sara curled her head down and gave him a pleading look. "Daddy?"

He smiled. "Go, Sar. You want your penguins? Get movin'." She lifted her head and stared longingly. Apprehensively. He got down, too, and gave her a nudge. "I'm here. Tony's here. We won't let you get hurt."

She nodded and pushed with her elbows. Her knees bent fractionally. She was stiff and tentative, but commando-crawled six inches, then eight, then twelve. She paused and sighed, forehead resting on her right arm.

Gibbs tickled her foot through her striped sock. "Halfway. Keep it up."

She bent her knee and pushed again. Tony sang _Eye of the Tiger_ and danced the toys around. Four more inches.

Sara stopped and yanked on her collar. Her dress was caught around her knees. "It's _pulling,_" she complained.

He adjusted it. "We might switch to shirts and pants from now on. Keep going."

She inched forward again and reached out. Tony nudged the tallest penguin at her and she lunged for it, fingers closing around an orange felt flipper. "I got it!" she cawed. "I got my poppins! It's a whole family!"

Gibbs nearly burst with pride. He scooped her up and peppered her face with kisses"Good work, sweet pea." He looked at Tony. "Thanks, DiNozzo," he said genuinely.

"Sure thing. I got more." He dragged another bag over and pulled out a set of wooden building blocks, a set of toy dishes, foam letters for the bathtub, and a set of rubber ducks cast in Navy garb. Sara squirmed to get down. He put her back among her new toys.

"You didn't—"

Tony stopped with a box of crayons in his hands. "Not much else I can do right now, Boss."

"She'll be o—"

"Ziva still blames herself. She still can't grasp the reality that Eli David kidnapped and tried to kill her, and I can't say try to convince her anymore because she just doesn't hear it. I guess I should be grateful that she lets me close to her now and doesn't jump or scream when I touch her, but dammit, Boss, _I can't do anything_."

A gust of wind shook the windows. Blowing leaves scratched on the glass. Sara moaned in surprise and turned over to find her father. "Daddy?"

"Just the wind, sweet pea. We're supposed to get a snowstorm."

She shook her head, wild-eyed, frantic. "Pick me up, _please_."

He scooped her off the mat and pushed her hair back. Maybe he needed to learn how to braid. "You're fine."

"I don't _like _a snowstorm."

"Penguins live in the snow," Tony offered. "They live through lots of storms. Big ones."

She turned and stared at her new toys. "I don't like it," she maintained.

"You got bad memories of snowstorms, kiddo?" Gibbs asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Wanna tell me about 'em?"

She traced her mouth with her thumb. "No."

He put his cheek on her head. "You should be napping."

"Yeah."

Her back was stiff where he rubbed it over her dress. "Why don't we have some quiet time and read a few stories? Might help you relax."

"No." He turned her around. She flopped. "Pick one of your new toys to take with you. The rest will be here when you come back."

Sara began to cry. "No nap! No snowstorm!"

He stood up with her in his arms. "I can't help with either of those, but I can help with stories. Tell Tony thanks for the stuff and you'll play later."

"Thank you, Tony," she parroted through her tears. "See you later."

He carried her into the guest bedroom. She clung to his neck when he sat on the edge of the bed. "Tell me about it, sweet pea."

"No."

"Did something bad happen during a snowstorm?"

She sniffled. "Mommy."

Gibbs snuggled her close. "Mommy died after a storm, huh?"

"I built a snowman with Adam Joseph."

He kissed her temple. "I bet it was a great snowman."

She tucked her hands between her body and his. "Mommy didn't wake up."

"She was sick, huh?"

"Yeah. We lived in a yellow house and the men came and they took her away and then I went away."

"Sounds scary."

Sara put her head down and cried for a long time. Gibbs rocked her, stroked her hair, rubbed her back, but had no condolences to offer. She fell silent eventually and blinked around the room.

"Why do mommies have to be dead?" she asked.

"Dunno," he mused. "But it isn't fair, is it?"

"No."

"What's a good way to remember your mom, sweet pea? Was there something special you did together that we can share?"

"Draw pictures."

He nodded. "That's why you didn't want to draw before, huh?"

She shrugged and nodded. "Yeah. And Mrs. Wolcott."

He eyed the pacifier on the nightstand, wishing he'd put it away. He was trying to wean her off it. "Tony bought you some new crayons. How about we do a little drawing when you wake up?"

"Not tired," she retorted, but yawned widely.

"Ziva is napping," he mentioned casually. He didn't have to show his whole hand when he played the Ziva-card.

She had to think, and did so with her index finger poised on her tiny chin. "I need my paci and all poppins."

He tucked the nookie between her lips. "Can I put you down so I can get your penguins?"

She nodded. He laid her in the borrowed travel crib—neither the bed nor the beanbag were suitable anymore—and fetched the remaining penguins off the play mat. Sara arranged them against the sides and tugged her green blanket around her. "Ok," she said. "_Laila tov_, Daddy."

He bent and kissed her brow. "Sleep good."

Tony had been crying, too. He stood at the kitchen sink with swollen red eyes and heavy hands. He didn't turn to look when Gibbs warmed his coffee.

"Comin' down hard, DiNozzo?"

He nodded.

"Ziver still asleep?"

Another nod.

He leaned against the countertop. "I got a kid with Brittle Bone Disease. I didn't know that when I took her."

Tony nodded again and didn't look at him.

"So," Gibbs drawled. "I thought our life would be different. I didn't think we'd have surgeries or doctors' appointments."

"Well, you do," he snapped. "Get over it."

"Her diagnosis didn't question whether or not I was supposed to be Sara's dad, but I have to man up and protect her because she's really, really fragile."

"Fragile," Tony echoed, still staring at the snow.

"She struggles every single day," he continued. "And that's hard for both of us, but I know when she looks at me that I'm the one."

"Man up," Tony said vacantly. "Gotcha."

Gibbs put his mug down. "Ziver might be more fragile, DiNozzo. Having to step up and protect her doesn't mean it's wrong."

Ayelet poked her head around from the hallway. She looked refreshed; nothing of the morning's panic remained on her fine, leonine features. "Welcome home, Tony," she said warmly. "Ziv'keh is awake. She'll be out in a minute. Gibbs, do you mind taking her smoothie out of the fridge? It needs to warm a bit before she can drink it."

Ziva was there when Gibbs turned back around, sidling up to Tony and threading her arm through his. He went white, then red, and put a gentle arm around her shoulders. "Hey, sweet cheeks," he sighed. "How you feeling?"

She shrugged and cuddled close to him. Tony exhaled. Gibbs watched most of the tension leech from his posture.

"She just woke up, DiNozzo. Don't make her stand there—go sit on the couch." He thrust the smoothie at Ziva, straw included. "Drink this, Ziver."

She took it with a small smile. Tony led her over to the couch and they sat with matching sighs. ZNN was flipped on, and for once Ayelet didn't migrate toward the kitchen. She lazed in an armchair with a mug of tea.

"How much snow are the weathermen calling for, Tony?" she asked sweetly.

"A bunch. I bought a sled for the Bug. Thought I'd toss her in there with a couple of pillows and tow her up and down the block. What d'ya say, Boss?"

Ziva put her hand on Tony's arm. "That sounds fun. I would li—" She broke off abruptly and put a hand to her jaw, wincing.

Tony sat up straight. "Percocet?"

She shook her head. Gibbs got her an ice pack and sat back down. "When's the doc gonna open your mouth, Ziver?"

She shrugged. Tony relaxed and she relaxed against him, bringing her head to rest just below his collarbone. His eyes closed briefly. The same relief washed across his features again. "Soon," he said for her. He let his head fall against the cushions. "Again, appointments like crazy next week. Hopefully there will be no more slurping after that." He craned his neck and looked down at her. "Any ideas for your first meal?"

She looked around for the tablet. Ayelet found it beneath a toss pillow and handed it to her, eyes still on the television screen. The Midwest was getting pounded with snow; a weathergirl in station-issue parka smiled from beneath her hood. The camera focused on a freeway pileup behind her. She muttered softly in Hebrew and Ziva hummed in agreement.

_She hopes no one is dead_, she translated. _And I want challah French toast with chocolate-hazelnut spread and strawberries. _

Ayelet glanced at it and nodded. "Starfruit, too, Zivaleh?"

_Yes_.

She smiled, finally looking away from the TV. "Whatever you want, my baby. Drink your smoothie, please."

Ziva sipped contentedly, still holding the icepack to her face, until Sara cried shrilly from the spare room. She jumped and stifled a shriek. Tony hugged her and whispered soothingly while Gibbs went to his daughter, who was tangled in the blanket and weeping.

"Baby girl," he cooed. "Did you have a bad dream?" He didn't pick her up.

"Yeah," she whimpered.

"'Bout what?"

"_Mur'Wolcott_."

Gibbs had the urge to hunt the man down and kill him in a thousand unspeakable ways. "I know, sweet pea. You're with me now and we're forever. Will I keep you safe?"

"Yeah."

"Is that my job as your daddy?"

"Yeah." She pushed the blankets back and held her arms up. "Out."

He scooped her up, palming her head, and carried her out to the living room. Tony grinned from the sofa, where Ziva was damn near in his lap with her smoothie straw poised at her mouth. Her face was dry and she gave a tiny smile. _Good_, he thought. Let her feel safe with him. With any of them.

Ayelet held her hands up. "May I hold her? I have not had the chance yet."

He looked at Sara. She nodded and he shifted her over.

"_Oy vey_," she breathed. "She so _chosheil_. She is in physical therapy, yes?"

"She's going back next week."

"Every day?"

"Yep."

She held Sara close and smoothed her curls. "Good. Little girls need to run and play. And she needs oil on her hair, Gibbs, if you don't want this frizz. I think we should make a family trip after the storm and buy a few things for her and a few for Zivi."

Sara nodded. "I like shopping, but I don't run. I _scooch_."

Ayelet smiled. "You do? Show me, little _shaifeleh_."

She put her on the mat and Sara once again commando-crawled from one end to the other. It was only a distance of a few feet, but the audience cheered and clapped like she'd run an Olympic race. Sara grinned and wriggled, flopping front-to-back. "Did it!" she declared.

"I'm sure you will have much more room to scoot when you move into your new house, Saraleh."

Ziva looked up, alarmed. _Move?_

"I don't know that the offer was accepted," Gibbs said seriously. "It's four weeks to close if it is, and we'll only be a few blocks away. You can walk to us."

Her eyes filled and she shook her head. _No. I do not want you to leave_

"We might not be going anywhere yet, Ziver. I need to know that the sellers accepted."

Sara flopped around to look at her. "Zeeba," she said slowly. "You have a room by mine. Daddy will buy a bed for Yaffa. She wiped her hands, indicating the deal was done. "Doda can come too because there's a room for her and Dod Romi on the other side."

"Where do I sleep?" Tony whined.

"Basement," she deadpanned.

Everyone laughed. She rolled back over and let her arms fall out. "I want to build blocks."

Gibbs pushed the box toward her. "Build our house for Ziver."

She didn't move. "Ok. I need a rest first."

He stifled a sigh; she was always tired. He was ready for a day that wasn't so hard for her. "Want your sitter?" Sara's feeding chair doubled as a floor seat. It propped her up so she didn't have to play lying down.

"Yeah," she said easily. She was not bothered by the fact that she spent her life in a five-point harness. He buckled her in and she waved at Ziva. "Come play with me," she ordered.

"Manners make the man, sweet pea," he reminded. He didn't care much, though. She spent enough time at other's mercy. Let them be at hers for once.

"Come play with me _please_," she corrected, having barely heard him. She was already tearing the packaging on the blocks.

Ziva slid out of Tony's arms and sat gingerly on the mat, legs tucked beneath her. "Build what?" she asked, wincing again. Tony gave her the ice pack. She held it to her face.

"Our house," Sara said obviously. She swept a few blocks at her. "You take the purple because that's your room. The whole house has a big wall but you can't see it. You can only get in if you have a special key. Daddy will give you one. Ok, Zeeba?" Ziva nodded and stacked purple blocks.

Ayelet tapped Gibbs' shoulder. "Come. I want to make minutesteaks for dinner. I understand you're an authority."

"I love minute steaks," Tony chimed from the couch.

"I know. You can set the table when the time comes, dear." She handed Gibbs a fistful of pearl onions. "Peel these for me while I peel the potatoes."

It was slow work. She wanted to keep him busy for a while. Sara prattled behind them, telling Ziva about the media room and smooth floors. He thought again about the wheelchair prescription in his wallet. She didn't really need it, did she? She was light and portable, and he was happy to carry her until she got on her feet at least some of the time.

"Your baby will be fine, Gibbs," Ayelet interrupted. "You do not need to worry so much."

"And yours?" he rejoined.

"I have my concerns, but," she nodded, as though waging a debate with herself. "But Romi and I have decided to invest in some real estate here. We're thinking about a pied-a-terre in Manhattan—perhaps a small one-bedroom or alcove studio. Not full-time, of course, but it would be good for business and good to have a place closer to Zivaleh. We know you are good to her, Gibbs, but we would like to spend more time with her."

"She's your kid," he agreed.

"Yes. And we are here a few times each year for business."

"And you just came _now _to visit?"

She glared at him. "You think I _could_ with that tyrant still walking the earth?"

"You couldn't come down and take her out for dinner?"

"We did, once, and Eli called Ziva's phone three times during the meal. He was relentless with his torment and she was embarrassed. I would not put her through that again."

"Forget New York. Get a place in DC. Hell, get a place in the building. Commuter trains run both ways."

"I will ask," she acquiesced. "Perhaps she does not want us so close. She _is_ a grown woman with her own life. She _is_ permitted to have her own space."

"So ask when she's feeling better."

She looked over at Ziva, who was listening intently to one of Sara's stories with the ice pack still pressed to her jaw. Ayelet tisked. "Ziv'keh? Will you take something please? I know you are having pain."

"Don't force it on her," Gibbs complained.

"Turn the tables," she said easily. "If it was Sara..."

He said nothing and layered his onions in a shallow dish with steaks and potatoes. He looked out at the snow, still falling heavily, and thought about his father. Jackson. They were supposed to go for Thanksgiving, but Sara's surgery and Ziva's assault kept them in DC. He wondered about the holidays. He wondered if Tim was finding out anything about Sara's mom. He'd charged him with the responsibility. _Pictures_, he requested. _Medical records. Gas receipts. I don't care, McGee, just get me something. She needs it._

He watched his little insect-child play with her blocks. She felt his eyes on her and looked up, face aglow. "Daddy, c'mere. Come see what I made with Zeeba. It's our house and there's room for a pony."

He sat down next to her. "What about that swimming pool?"

"I use hers," she replied, pointing at Ziva. "It's fine. Can we swim tomorrow?"

"Sure. We're stuck inside anyway. May as well get some exercise, huh?"

She nodded, walking one of her wooden horses around her block-house. "Just not walking."

"Would you walk with Julie and Adjoa?"

"No, just you."

He ruffled her hair. "So you _will_ walk for me or you _won't? _ I'm getting mixed signals, kid."

She looked at him—_really_ looked at him. Her big, round eyes were light green in the lamplight and she smiled. "_Just_ with you," she repeated. "Only, only Daddy. That's all."


	21. Mother

**Wow, people. The outpouring of love I got for the final chapter of "Treading Water" made me cry and cry. You are all wonderful. You make me lucky.**

**Sooo...*ta da!* Here's a new chapter! I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.**

**Thanks: Amilyn, Chemmie, girleffect**

**. . . .**

_Mother, the car is here._

_Somebody leave a light on._

_-Tori Amos, "Mother."_

. . . .

Julie's held her head over Sara's and said, _we're going to sit together now_ but it was a lie because Sara had to sit in a special seat and Julie got to sit on the floor. Sara didn't like her special seat but her whole body was a wobbly noodle so if she didn't use it then she couldn't sit at all, she would just flop over like the _for sale_ sign the man took down at their new house. He pulled up in his truck and gave it a shove and Tony said _timber! _and it went _fwoomp_ on the snow. It was funny. Sara had laughed pretty hard when that man scratched his head like it was all a big surprise.

But now Sara wanted to lie down because she was tired. School was hard. Julie and Adjoa were always pushing and pulling on her. They hooked her up to this weird walking-thing and they made her legs go with their hands and they swung her on swings and they gave her food all the time, but Sara wanted to sleep—maybe with special milk first—or just lie on the floor. Or maybe in the big bed with Ziva. That would be nice. She liked to lie there in the quiet and listen to Doda Ayla hum while she dusted or folded their clean clothes.

"Sar?" Julie said. "Hey, back to Earth, kiddo."

"No," she said. "I'm done."

"Not yet," Adjoa said from the other side.

She got mad. Tony said two against one was no fair. "Yes. I'm done. I want Daddy." She looked all around but he wasn't anywhere. Her mad turned into scared. "Daddy?"

"I'm right here," he said, and it was true. "I was talking to Dr. Sheehan. She said you need a few tests, sweet pea."

Tests. Yuck. "I don't want tests."

"It's not a choice, baby girl."

She huffed. "I want to see Zeeba."

"She just had surgery. We'll see her when she gets home."

She got mad again. She wanted to kick something but her stupid legs were all wonky still. "No. I want to see her. I didn't see her all day and that's no fair."

He ignored her. "Do you need a diaper change?"

Sara went hot all over. "Daddy, don't say that!"

He put her hat on. The nice one with rainbow stripes. It meant they were leaving. "Yes or no?"

"I didn't go," she whispered.

Daddy put her in the new stroller. It was pretty red and soft for sitting so her bad bones didn't get hurt. Sara liked it because she and Daddy could look at each other. "Then you can try when we get home."

She put her bottom lip out. "I wanna see Zeeba."

He reached for his phone and she smiled a little, because it meant she was getting her way. He talked to Tony—he even smiled a little bit—and then zipped the stroller blanket all around. "You win."

She waved to her teachers and they went outside. It was cold. Sara shivered when Daddy put her in the new car seat. It was more comfortable than the old one, and Doda Ayla gave her a nice blanket for on top. He tucked her all in cozy-nice-and-warm and they went to the grown-up hospital. It was all white except for Ziva's bed. Tully the sheep and her soft blanket were there and the doctors covered _both_ of her eyes and that made Sara scared. How would Ziva see?

Tony picked her up but she wasn't ready and the ceiling went _whoosh_ in front of her eyes. Ugh. Her belly felt sick. Tony was bigger than Daddy and he put her on his shirt and gave a snuggly hug. "Hey, Bug," he said. "How was school?"

"Good," she lied.

"Are you learning a lot?" Doda Ayla asked. She baby-rubbed her thumb on Ziva's cheek, but Ziva was sleeping and didn't notice. That was ok. It was better to be sleeping if she couldn't see.

"Yeah," she said.

"Like what?"

Sara didn't know what to say. She was lucky when Tony said, _how to launch rocket ships_.

"Yeah!"

"And how to command a roomful of adults to do exactly what she says."

"Yeah!"

"And fly like a bird!"

Sara got quiet. Everyone was suddenly very serious and then Daddy said some grownup words that she didn't understand and Doda and Tony nodded in a very sad way. She felt nervous and bad because they were talking about her.

Ziva woke up then, but only a little. She sniffled and made a quiet little _um_ and Tony gave Sara back to Daddy like _shoom_. She didn't flop too much. Daddy held her nicely.

Tony went to the bed and held Ziva's hands. "Hey," he said. "We're here."

She still couldn't talk too good because of the thing in her mouth. "Tony?" she said.

"And Doda and Gibbs and the Bug. We're all here. The nurse will take the bandages off in a few hours, ok? They just want your eyes to rest for a little bit so the stitches don't itch."

"Off." The medicine made her forget.

"In a little while," Doda Ayla said. She gave her a baby-rub again on her face and Ziva went back to sleep.

Sara felt sad for her. Daddy noticed and said, _she'll be ok, sweet pea. They'll be home at dinnertime _and then she was a little better.

"Ok," she sighed. "I want to go home."

He put her back in the cozy blanket and buckled everything tight. Daddy liked things safe. "All right. It's lunchtime for you anyway, kid."

But Sara had an accident on the way home. A bad one. She needed a whole long bath and a clean diaper and clean clothes and by the time Daddy made her grilled cheese she didn't want to eat anymore. She only wanted to go in her little bed and sleep. She made a fuss.

Daddy put her in bed with a serious face. "Dr. Sheehan said you shouldn't skip meals," he said when she was all tucked. "She's sending us for tests because you're weak and sleepy all the time. That's not ok—you're supposed to be running around and playing."

"Don't want to," she said.

They got quiet. Sara closed her eyes for a long time and thought about tests. Daddy must've thought she was sleeping because he got up to leave. She didn't want him to. "No-no, please," she said because manners made the man. "Do tests hurt?"

He smoothed her hair. "I hope not."

"Will I go to sleep?"

"For one, yeah. They're going to use a special camera to look in your belly."

"Like x-rays?" They used cameras for those. Tim McGee said so.

"Not quite. It's a camera on a long, skinny tube that goes down your throat and looks around."

That sounded scary. "I don't want that."

"Not a choice, baby girl."

Sara felt mad and sad. "Tell the doctors to leave me alone."

Daddy put his big, rough hand on her back. She could feel it scratching through her shirt. "I can't, kiddo. Not until you grow."

She tried to turn over and couldn't. Her head was heavy-heavy. She wanted to ask _Can I have milk, Daddy_? but her mouth didn't make the words and no sound came out and then she was peaceful like with Ziva. There was humming somewhere. Doda's humming or Mommy's humming, and then she slept, curls wild on the pillow, her arms outstretched for Daddy.

. . . .

Worry chewed up Gibbs' gut. Sara was getting weaker, the docs were on his case, and he was eating antacids by the handful. He puttered, de-cluttering, lining up prescription bottles and smoothie mixes, until McGee tiptoed in with his laptop bag over his shoulder.

"Boss," he whispered. "I found stuff." Gibbs held a finger to his lips. Tim went pale. "Sorry," he apologized, face red. "But it took forever. I had to hack the social security administration when I found out Elana Cohen's security number was only a few years old at the time of her death—"

That got his attention. "Why?"

He took a folder out of a protective waterproof bag. "Elana was born in Monsey, New York in 1986 but wasn't assigned a social security number until she was nineteen."

He flipped through a few old pay stubs—she worked as a waitress and then an executive assistant—and some medical files. "What's this about, McGee?"

"Sara's mom was raised in a small town fifty miles north of New York City. Parents are gone, no siblings, and none of the neighbors I contacted could tell me much about them."

He slapped the file back at Tim. "That's why the social worker couldn't find any family for Sara."

"Probably. I think Elana was a runaway. She donated a few small sums to an organization in New York City. The woman I spoke to was pretty secretive, but she said they help troubled youth with job skills, computer skills, money management, obtaining a GED...gets them on the right track to make it on their own."

Gibbs growled. "What the hell was she running from?"

"I'm still looking into it."

He grunted and peeked in at Sara, who was still sound asleep. He pushed the blankets away from her face—did he have to worry about crib death?—and closed the door tightly. "No one was looking for her."

Tim sat in an armchair. "Families are biological organisms, Boss. They live and die like anything else."

He ached for another round of antacids. Or a finger of bourbon. "Get any pictures?"

McGee held out a few photos. The first was a five-by-seven of three schoolgirls lounging on a grassy, suburban lawn. Their pleated uniform skirts were tucked modestly around their legs. He knew immediately which one was Elana by the wild dark curls and seawater eyes. She'd also shared Sara's full lips and narrow brows. "Damn," he breathed.

"Uncanny, isn't it? I think this one was taken a few years later." He pointed to a picture in which Elana leaned alone against a grafitti'd brick wall wearing baggy blue jeans cinched at the hips with a man's belt. There was a cigarette between her lips. She scowled at the camera, but there was obvious naiveté in her clear, grey-green eyes. Tim gave him a small smile. "Guess we know where Sara's rebellious streak comes from."

"Yeah," he grumbled. He squinted again at the photo; Elana was _tiny_, with small hands and narrow hips. He felt something click into place. "You got stats on her, McGee?"

He stammered and flipped through a few photocopied records. "A doctor visit in May of 2009 says she was sixty-one inches tall and ninety-four pounds. Petite. Must be where—"

"She had OI."

"Yeah." He handed over a printout from the genetics laboratory at Johns Hopkins. _Elana Miriam Cohen_ and her birthdate were printed at the top. The rest was stuff about amino acids and glycine and collagen.

"She passed it on to her kid."

McGee shifted in his seat. "Osteogenesis Imperfecta is an autosomal dominant disorder. That means—"

"What were the chances?"

"Fifty percent," he answered quietly.

He nodded. "Will Sara pass it on?"

McGee shifted again. "Fifty percent again. But it's unlikely that—"

"That she'll be able to have kids?"

He held up his hands. "That's not what I said. It's still a very rare condition, and not much is known about it. Geneticists are discovering recessive mutations of the same allele in more than thirty-five percent of current cases of OI. Sara may not pass it on, or she could pass on a different type of the disorder altogether."

Gibbs nodded and grunted. Would he live long enough to see Sara have kids? Would _she_? His gut tossed again at the thought of burying another daughter. "Did Elana know Sara has it?"

"Probably. They would've had some genetic counseling, I'm sure. I'm still looking into it."

He nodded again. Something's wrong with her."

Tim blinked. "What?"

He sat heavily. "Doc thinks something's wrong in her gut. She's got an endoscopy tomorrow and a scan the day after that."

"Because of her low tone and slow growth?"

"No growth. I can't keep weight on her. Or get her out of diapers."

"No bowel or bladder control?"

"Nope."

He stilled. "Huh."

Gibbs went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. "Having nightmares again, too. Bad ones."

"Sorry to hear that."

He shrugged. "Not your fault."

Tim came to the other side of the granite counter peninsula and pressed his fingertips to the surface. The nailbeds turned white. "You know, Sara lived through a lot more in five years than most people do in a lifetime. Losing her mom was where it _started_ for her. There was veritable homelessness, abuse of all forms, her diagnosis, witnessing Ziva's assault and kidnapping..." Gibbs gave him a hard look and he trailed off, sensing impatience. "I'm saying that those are some really deep wounds in one small person. Would you expect her to just get over it?"

"No, but I'm sure she could use a dose of normal life."

"This _is _her normal."

"Ziva getting the crap kicked out of her is Sara's normal."

He looked down. "She took that hard, didn't she?"

"They're close. Sar's just waiting for her to feel better, I think."

Tim rummaged in his bag. "I got one more. Here."

He passed Gibbs a photo of Elana on the front porch of little yellow house in Alexandria. She held Sara, likely a year old, on her hip. Both were smiling sunnily. Sara already had an impish look in her green eyes. Sadness gripped him so hard and fast that he had to sit. "Damn," he murmured.

"She loved her kid."

"Yep," he replied roughly.

"So do you."

Something clicked in Gibbs' head. His gut stopped swirling. "I never took her to that endocrinologist appointment," he revealed lowly, eyes hot and dry. "We lost our slot when Minton bumped her surgery."

Tim sensed his urgency. He stacked the photos at the edge of the counter. "I know someone. Want me to pull some strings at Children's?"

"Can you get her in this week?"

He shouldered his bag. "I can try. I have to get back to work, but I'll make some phone calls this evening and let you know ASAP."

He walked him to the door. "Thanks, Timothy. You've been—"

McGee went red around his collar. "On it, Boss," he blurted stiffly. "I'll call you later."

. . . .

Sara had a bad dream about Ziva's mean daddy. The one who tried to pull her on the stairs. The one who hit her and called names and ruined her eye so that she needed to have a surgery. The one who tried to make her fight. The one who made her so sad and afraid that she could only lie in bed with Doda and sleep. That made Sara's long scar hurt and she woke up sweaty and alone in the room she shared with Daddy. It was dark because the shade was closed. Sara could hear hard snow _ping-ping_-ing on the glass. More snow. It would snow forever, probably.

She didn't know she was crying until Daddy picked her up and wiped her face with his sleeve. "Bad dream?"

She put her head on his shoulder. "Yeah."

"Want milk?"

"Yeah."

They went to the living room. Sara got special milk now, which came in its own little bottle just for her. It tasted good and sweet. The doctor said it would help her grow but that was a lie because nothing would make her grow, not even if she ate all the broccoli in the world. Sara liked broccoli. She liked every vegetable except raisins.

She and Daddy walked around and around Ziva's house while she had her milk. Around their room, around the living room, back and forth in front of the TV. The even went up and down the outside a few times, until the bottle was empty and she handed it to him. "Done."

He put it in recycling. "I got something for you." He picked up some papers and held them so she could see. "Who's that?"

Sara blinked her eyes tight but it was real. Mommy was in those pictures. All of them. There was even one of both of them by the yellow house on the narrow street. It was before mommy _didn't feel well_ and before Mr. Wolcott and before Mr. Godwin and before the Community Center and before Daddy and being adopted and Ziva and everything. It was all _before_.

Sara's body went tight-tight-tight. She couldn't breathe. Daddy gave her a soft shake and said, _hey baby girl, take a breath_ and then she did but it was _hard._ Mommy was gone. Their yellow house was gone. Their too-warm kitchen and the television and the snowman and Adam Joseph were gone. A part of Sara was gone, too, because that part was Mommy's.

But would Sara be all-the-way gone, too? Did she feel how Mommy felt when she _wasn't feeling well? _Was she wobbly and tired all the time? Was there anybody to hold her and smooth her hair and say _shhhh shhhh_ so nicely? No. Maybe. Joey? Where was Joey when Mommy _didn't feel well_? She couldn't remember. She didn't want to remember. She didn't want all the sadness, either, but it was everywhere—inside her, outside her, on her skin, in Daddy's soft shirt, in the carrier, in her bed. It was in the loud noises she was making and in her floppy going-nowhere body and in her clothes and in her hair. She wanted to run away from it, but nothing happened when she tried to get down.

She looked at Daddy, then, _really _looked at his blue eyes and grey-white hair and the lines on his cheeks and then she screamed. She screamed as loud as she could and as long as she could until there was no more noise inside her. She screamed until there was nothing. She screamed until she _was_ nothing and then there was a cool hand on her neck and another on her head. The quiet pushed her down and down some more. Was she falling? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Her mouth went loose, loose and then she floated away from Daddy into the dark.

. . . .

There was noise when Sara woke. People-noise: talking, kitchen sounds, papers. She was tired, but the world trickled in drip-drip-drip like the bathtub faucet at their old house and she had to open her eyes to see.

_Hey_, she wanted to say _Daddy! _because he was sitting at the counter instead of holding her. But the hand on her head was soft and so was the humming under her ear and it was Ziva holding her, not Daddy, and that was ok.

"_Shaifeleh_," she said in her quiet way. "Are you waking up now?"

Her tongue was fuzzy and stuck to the roof of her mouth. She clicked it and swallowed. Yuck. She felt sticky all over.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Sara still couldn't get her eyes to look at stuff. She was turned around and that was dizzy. The lights glowed orange through her eyelids, and then something brushed her lower lip. A sippy cup. Juice. Grape juice from Dod Romi's special farm. She drank and drank. The fuzzy feeling in her mouth went away.

"A very good girl," Ziva said in her language, and Sara felt warm and heavy all over. Heavy-heavy. She would not float away. "Do you feel all right, _shaifeleh_?"

No, she didn't. She was tired and hot and cold. Her body weighed too much. She couldn't snuggle the right way for quiet time, but Ziva said _ok_ like she understood and got up.

Doda Ayla was somewhere. She made a noise and said _Careful, Ziv'keh! You still have sedatives in your system_ but Ziva just said another quiet thing in her language and then she carried Sara to her bed, where it was dark and safe.

Tully the lamb came out, then the soft baby blanket. Ziva wrapped her up tight and they snuggled down together with all the pillows. The window shades were open. Sara could see the snow coming down by the streetlights.

"Tell me, _shaifeleh_."

Was there anything to tell? Sara didn't know. "Mommy," she said simply.

Ziva hummed. "I know."

"She's gone."

"Yes, and that is sad."

Sara felt like she was tearing in two. "I don't want to be gone."

"You will not be gone."

"Were you gone?"

Ziva pushed her hand through Sara's hair and it felt soft, not heavy. "It is hard to know. I felt like...nothing was real. Do you feel like that?"

No, she felt like everything was real and that was terrible. "No."

"Tell me, then."

Her hands were cold. "Everything is gone."

"I am very sorry, _shaifeleh_. You are having some big, scary feelings and there is nothing I can say to make them stop. I hope our quiet time helps."

Sara closed her eyes. Ziva hugged her tight and that was good. She felt a little less heavy-heavy. Her breath came out slow, but that was ok. "Don't be gone, Ziva," she said. "Don't be gone, ok? Stay here."

Ziva was quiet for a long time. She put her hand on Sara's belly. "I will not be gone, _shaifeleh_. I give you my word."

Sara made a frown with her eyes closed. She didn't want her word; she wanted her whole self. "Promise you'll stay all the way."

"I promise."

"Promise you will not be gone like Mommy."

Ziva was quiet for a long time. "I promise."

She huffed. "Promise you will stay like Daddy."

"I promise."

"And be good."

"I will be good," Ziva said seriously. The baby blanket was soft and warm. Maybe she would stay here until it was time to eat.

"I will stay and I will be good, my _shaifeleh_."

. . . .

"Ziva has permanent hearing loss."

Gibbs was not surprised. She'd taken a beating. There was no way she'd walk away from it unscarred. "Yeah."

"We found out yesterday that she has mild loss on the right side. Neural. Nothing they can do for it. It may effect her understanding of speech in crowded or noisy environments, but otherwise she should be fine."

He put down the newspaper. Ayelet was cooking, as usual. Something smelled starchy. "How's she doing?"

"Ignoring it."

Of course. "It's only minor, and it's not like she's in the field anymore."

She turned to face him. "No, but it _is_ an impairment, and one she did not have before. It _will_ have an affect on her life."

"But she can cope pretty easily."

She gave him a hardened look. "It is _permanent_ and it is because of Eli. Do you understand?"

He took it as gracefully as a fist to the gut. "Yeah." He went back to his newspaper. Onions sizzled in the pan, joined by garlic and something sweet. Tomatoes? He waited for the sound to die down before speaking again.

"Sara's PT gave her a prescription for a wheelchair."

Ayelet dumped a handful of cubed London broil in the pot and added a little flour. The sweet smell deepened. "So why does she not have one?"

"Not sure she needs it."

A rich, brown sauce went into the pan and she turned on him again, scowling harder yet. "Your child has a condition that causes mobility issues—you think I cannot Google?—and yet you are denying her a tool that could give her some independence and confidence? I am shocked, Gibbs."

He got irritated. That felt good. "I _said_ I'm not sure she needs it."

She stirred her pot. "Would a trained medical professional give you a prescription for something Sara did not need?"

"I'm her _father_," he argued. Were they really descending into childish back-and-forth? It didn't matter. She was pissing him off. "I know what's best for my own kid."

Ayelet had him by the throat. "You have questioned and fought every single thing, Gibbs. I'm not saying they have all the answers, but they have more than _you_ do, so maybe you ought to listen. Take orders. Work _with_ them, not _against_ them."

"I'm taking her tomorrow for an endoscopy so we can get her weight loss figured out."

"For crying out loud, Gibbs, you have watched her deteriorate despite the fact that the doctors have been asking you to do something about it. She can barely lift her head and only _now_ do you act?"

He stared, furious. "I don't need you to tell me how to take care of my daughter."

She slammed a drawer and pulled him into a hug. He let her. "No, none of us need that. But a kick in the pants once in a while? Certainly. It is time to drop your preconceived notions about Sara and get her what she needs."

"I don't _have_ any precon—"

Then _why_ haven't you done it?" she interrupted.

"I want her to have a normal life."

She turned the burner down to simmer and leaned on the counter. "She is not a normal child. Stop trying to fit her into a mold. She has clearly cast her own."

He threw the newspaper and his empty seltzer can into the recycling bin and slammed the lid. "Sara didn't cast any mold, genetics did. Neglect. Abuse."

She put the lid on her pan. "She has had many close calls."

"Too many," he snorted. Damn, he wanted a drink.

Ayelet poured each of them a glass of red wine. It wasn't enough, but he'd take it. "And you have lost a lot, haven't you?"

He stared for a long time before answering. "I buried my wife and daughter."

She sipped and considered, blue eyes soft. "And you fear every day that you will bury another. That is why you hold Sara so close—quite literally—and carry her around like a princess on a pillow. If you put her down she could disappear and you would not survive that."

The wine was good, but he couldn't manage more than a few sips. He could feel her eyes on him as he put his glass down.

"You are not alone in raising her, Gibbs, and Sara is not alone in being your child. I have seen then way you care for Ziva, for Tony, for all of them, and it is excellent and admirable. You are a good father."

"Yeah."

"But even good fathers cannot do it alone. It is time to put her down. Sara may fall, but she will get up." Ayelet paused to chuckle. "She will get up and demand a pony."

"Uh huh," he agreed wryly.

Ziva came out silently from the bedroom with Sara on her hip. She buckled her into the feeding seat and pushed it up to the table. Ayelet poured her a glass of juice and stuck a straw in it. "Are you finally hungry, Zivaleh?" she asked. "I made a goulash. It should be easy to mash down for you."

She peered at the reddish stew and nodded. "Ok. Sara is hungry, also."

Gibbs looked; Sara had perked up a little. She played with a few animals, but had yet to put down the photo of her and her mother. "Hey," he said gently. "Let's put this aside while you eat. You don't want to get food on it."

She scowled, but relented. "Fine. But I want it back."

Ziva got up and dug in the hall closet. "Here," she slurred, holding out a small photo album. "Until you get them framed."

"And we'll put all of them in my new room. Right by my bed. With Kelly and Mama."

"Sure." He sat down next to her. "Kid, your doctors want me to get you a wheelchair."

She nodded, spoon still in her mouth. "I know," she said blithely.

He snorted. Sure she did. "They think you might need help getting around, especially if you get a break."

"_Daddy_," she sighed, and pinned him with a withering look. "I _know_. That's why we need smooth floors."

He barely kept his jaw from dropping. "Since when?"

"Surgery," she replied, plunking a zebra in her empty bowl.

He was given his own plate of goulash and wide egg noodles. "Did I put you through that for nothing?"

"Nope," she said grandly. "It doesn't hurt anymore. Not even at school or ever."

"You know I signed you up for that because they told me you'd be walking after."

She considered the zebra and added a giraffe. The paprika would stain, but she probably didn't care. "I will, but only a little bit."

The stew was delicious. He cleaned his plate before speaking again. "You tried to tell me, didn't you?"

Sara sat back and rubbed her eyes. "Yeah. I said, _I don't walk_ but you I would said after my cast fell off." She cocked her head and thought. "You were right and wrong and _I_ was right and wrong. That's fair."

She was all about fairness these days. Gibbs only nodded. "Guess so. You gettin' tired, sweet pea?"

"Yeah."

He picked her up. She blew kisses to Ziva and Ayelet and he carried her into the bedroom. She chose elephant pajamas. He looked at the tag—size twenty-four months. "What's not fair is you not growing, kiddo."

She helped him tug her shirt on. "I need medicine for my belly."

"Is that what's wrong?"

"Yeah. Can I have my paci?"

Gibbs gave her a stern look. "You really need it?"

She scowled. "Yes, because they are putting a camera in me."

Who was he to argue with that? He dug it out from the pocket of his sport coat and tucked it in her mouth. "You're pretty brave for putting up with all this."

That remark earned him the same look he'd gotten earlier—the one she'd given him just before grief had almost swallowed her whole. She wasn't brave, he realized, just resigned; she had no choice and no energy left to fight.

"I don't want to be gone like Mommy."

"I won't let that happen."

She blinked and held her arms up. "Pick me up."

He did. She adopted her usual position—head on his chest, knees up and out like a little frog—and he sat in the armchair under the window. "I love you," he said in her ear. "I will protect you. I'm your daddy."

She nodded. "Don't be gone."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

He kissed her head. Her curls tickled his nose. "I promise. Story?"

"No."

"Want to tell me something about your mom?"

He took her silence as refusal at first, but she broke it with a sigh. "She was good."

"I'll bet. She had you, and you're pretty amazing."

"I know," she agreed. The pacifier came out. She put it in his shirt pocket. "'Member when we went to the judge?"

He smiled his first genuine smile all day. "Of course I do. It was a great day."

"Yeah, because we're forever. When are Doda and Zeeba going to the judge?"

"I don't think they will, sweet pea. Doda and Ziva are grownups—they don't need to go to the judge to be forever."

"No fair," she mumbled. They need a paper so everyone knows."

"Let's make 'em one."

"Yeah! Tomorrow after my yucky test."

"Wish we didn't have to do more tests, sweet pea, but you need to get healthy."

She patted his sides with her tiny, bony hands. A Sara-hug. "I know, Daddy. It's ok."

He kissed her head again and some of the awful, raw feeling left his sore heart. "I love you," he repeated.

She lifted her head and looked at him. "You are _mine_," she said possessively, and tucked the pacifier back in her mouth. She lay back down and sighed herself to sleep, just like that.

Gibbs smiled. "Yeah, baby girl," he whispered. The dark was growing. Hard snow continued to blow against the window. "I'm yours."


	22. All Along the Watchtower

**Hi! I love you! I missed you!**

**Thanks: girleffect, Chemmie, the lovely and always-generous Amilyn. What would I do without you?**

**Caution: may *T* Take care of yourselves.**

**Love and hugs and stuff, Mecha**

**. . . .**

So_ let us not talk falsely now;_

_the hour is growing late._

_-Bob Dylan, "All Along the Watchtower."_

"So how are you?"

Ziva took a breath and smoothed her hands down her legs. She'd dressed carefully for the appointment. Jeans. A sweater. Boots. _Normal _clothes. She'd even combed her hair and dabbed some balm on her chapped lips, because the double vision was gone and she could look in a mirror without getting nauseated. "I am fine," she said slowly.

Dr. Loeb pressed her lips together. That was obviously not the answer she wanted. "How were your last appointments? Has your concussion cleared yet?"

She blinked, feeling like she was swimming up from deep sleep. "I still have headaches, but my vision is normal."

"Still wearing your intraoral splint?"

She nodded. "Yes, but it's open and I can eat soft solids."

The therapist nodded and eyed her suspiciously. "Was your tympanoplasty successful?"

She nodded again and looked at her ragged fingernails. "Yes, but I sustained nerve damage. I have mild hearing loss on the left side."

Dr. Loeb clucked. "I am so sorry, Ziva. How are you feeling about that?"

She felt herself flush with humiliation. "I am ok. I did not expect it to be...permanent."

"You've always relied on your senses to survive. How are you coping?"

Ziva dropped her chin to her chest. She felt transparent, like Dr. Loeb could see through her to the grey day beyond. "I have been told that it gets easier," she said quietly. "But these days are hard."

"Understood. Do you have assistive technology?"

She squinted. "Not necessary."

Silence, then the therapist tried to surprise her: "Do you know what we haven't discussed much, Ziva?"

"Yes," she murmured. Was that _her_ voice?

"And yet it's looming right here with us. It's in the room. It's in your home. It's everywhere. How long can you ignore it?"

Ziva felt herself shrink. "I do not know."

Dr. Loeb leaned forward and propped her elbows on her knees. "Your father hurt you, Ziva. He hurt you terribly." She held her hands up. "That is _fact_. Facts can't be ignored."

A lump rose in her throat. She couldn't swallow or speak around it, so she sat for a long time with her head down. The doctor handed her a tissue. She tore it into strips until her hands fell into her lap like two wounded birds. "I know," she finally said.

"Tell me another fact about what happened."

She lifted one shoulder without looking up. "I made him very angry."

"Ah-ah," Dr. Loeb corrected. "That is an assumption based on his behavior. Tell me _facts_, Ziva. What happened?"

She had to think hard. Her head pounded. Slow and steady. "He flew from Tel Aviv to DC. He came to take me to Sana'a. Two Mossad agents died in a coup by a Taliban faction. He said it was my fault. He wanted me to fix it."

"Where did he find you?"

The walls closed in. Ziva picked at her cuticles. "At Gibbs' house."

"And what were you doing?"

"I was watching Sara." She closed her eyes. "He threatened to kill her. He said if I did not come with him he would crush her skull with his bare hands." She swallowed and dragged her knuckles across her mouth. "It would have been easy for him. Her bones are fragile."

The doctor waved her hands to cut her off. "But she wasn't killed. You protected her, Ziva. You kept her safe. What happened after Eli found you?"

She shook her head. It was difficult to remember. _Recall issues_, the doctor said. They might linger for months. "I put her in bed and he...he hit me as I was closing the door. He punched me...my head. It hurt so badly."

Dr. Loeb's voice was soft. "That was how the assault began? You were ambushed?"

She nodded. There was a lump in her throat. It was hard to speak around it. "He hit and kicked me, shoved me against the wall. He said...he said awful things."

"Like what?"

"He called me a mongrel and a bastard. He said I was nothing but an embarrassment to Israel and my family. But he was mostly just..._hitting _me. He ordered me to fight back. I would not. I _could _not—I was sodizzy."

"You would not fight back even as he pummeled and insulted you?"

Tears burned behind Ziva's eyes. "He was my _father_."

"What happened after that?"

She sniffled. Dr. Loeb handed her another tissue. She rolled it into a cylinder. "I was on the floor. I...I vomited—"

"Concussed."

"Yes. But he said I had to stand up and walk out or he would kill Sara." She picked again at her cuticles. "She was screaming. I could hear it the whole way to the car." The room faded a bit. "I wanted someone to hear," she said numbly. "I wanted Gibbs to find her."

Dr. Loeb put out her hands. "Stay with me. What happened after you got in the car?"

The tightness lifted just a tiny bit. "I do not remember, but Tony said he drove to Dulles and tried to get me on a flight to Cairo. The ticket agent called security. Eli stole the guard's gun and held up the lobby. Everyone was called in—NCIS, FBI, Homeland Security."

"Wow. Sounds like a circus, but I can't imagine it any other way. Gibbs, Tony, Sara—they all love you very much, Ziva. I can't imagine that they wouldn't call in the cavalry."

The soothing, dulcet tones in her voice brought tears to Ziva's eyes. She couldn't look up. "Gibbs shot him. Gibbs shot Eli. My father. Gibbs shot and killed him."

"Why did he do that?"

"He was taking me to Sana'a."

"He was kidnapping you."

Ziva studied her knees, her boots, the floor. She felt like an empty oil drum, heavy and rusted. "I thought I was going to die," she said quietly.

"Were you following orders, Ziva?"

"Yes."

"Why? You are no longer Mossad. You aren't even Israeli."

The air thinned. She gasped for breath.

Dr. Loeb put her hand on Ziva's knee. It warmed right through the leg of her jeans. "Who were you, then? Were you a soldier following orders, or were you just a little girl who wanted Papa's love and approval?"

Ziva dropped her face into her hands. She couldn't think. She couldn't look. She only wanted to melt, to dissolve. A sudden gust of wind shook the windowpanes and she jumped, scared.

"Who were you?" the doctor pressed. It hurt, like she had her finger in one of Ziva's still-healing wounds. "Who were you? You're safe. You can say it."

No, she couldn't, because that child was gone. Long dead. Eli sent her to war and she was killed and killed and left on the battlefield like a spent shell casing. Was she an artifact someday? Something a small boy picked out of the mud—something he might show his friends? _This was a bomb. It went off a hundred years ago and then we won the war_.

"Ziva?"

It took a long time to find the words. "I wanted him to be happy with me."

"So you _were_ that child."

"Yes," she admitted, and she was lighter the second the word is out of her mouth. She still could not look up. "Yes, I was."

"Are little girls sent to war, Ziva?"

"No."

"What are little girls supposed to do?"

_Sara_. Damn that child. Damn her lost innocence and her grief and her confidence and her persistent, knowing gaze. She stuttered. What _did_ children do?

"What do they do, Ziva? You told me once when we talked about the birthday party."

She remembered games. Lots of them. And laughing. And running, but not the way _she'd _had to run. "They play," she said simply.

"Did Eli permit that?"

"No."

"He stole your joy."

_Ow_, she thought. The weird, bruised pain was back. "Yes."

Dr. Loeb's pen scratched on her legal pad. "What else do little girls do?"

"They...go to school. They learn so that they may succeed in the future."

"Uh huh. Your education was sabotaged. What else?"

She blinked. "They are...looked after. They are to have proper clothing and food, toys, medical and dental care..."she trailed off. She poked her tongue at the hinges of her splint. "And they need to feel like someone will do these things for them. That they do not have to earn it."

"You did."

"Yes."

"What else do little girls do?"

Her back stiffened. The anger was _delicious_. "Nothing," she snapped. "They should not have to do _anything_. They are _children_. They should not have to train or fight or patrol. They should not be dragged out of bed at four in the morning, or beaten, or demeaned in public. They should not be abandoned on the sides of highways or locked in closets or called _mamzer _or _zona_ or dragged off to a battlefield to die!"

Dr. Loeb's head snapped back and she went wide-eyed. "Ziva," she whispered. She drew it out—_Zeeeee-vaaaaah_. "You are furious."

"My life was _stolen_!" she cried abruptly. "I was a _child_ and he hurt me. He made me run and fight and patrol for him. He beat me if I didn't and sometimes if I _did_. That is not _fair."_

Her throat closed. Her hands knotted together in her lap. Ziva curled around her tender ribs and sobbed for the little running girl she'd been. She cried for her failed school exams and forgotten birthdays, for the rifle she was made to carry, for the beatings, for the humiliation, for all the ways she was made to feel ugly and unworthy. For her unsafe world, country, home. For Somalia and the men who held her down and tore off her clothes, for the chains and waterboarding, for her forgottenness. For all the times she'd volunteered to die. For the scars. All of them. She cried for a very long time, until her sore heart was empty and then there was nothing, nothing left.

"Ziva?" Dr. Loeb said once it was quiet. She'd moved beside her and was rubbing her back in slow circles. "Are you all right?"

She picked apart her tissue. "Yes."

"That was big."

She was so tired. "Yes."

"What happened?"

"I was a child!" she blurted, but the rage wass gone. She deflated, chest collapsing, head dangling on its stem.

The doctor hummed. It made her think of Doda Ayla and she cried all over again. "You were," she said. "You were only a child. Children do not deserve to be treated the way you were."

"No, they do _not_," she said through tears. "_I_ did not!"

"You didn't," Dr. Loeb agreed. Her voice was warm and soft, a contrast to Ziva's burning anger. "You didn't deserve to be hurt, or forced to fight, or called names, or dragged across the globe to be killed by rebel insurgents. You didn't deserve any of those things."

She could only cry harder and shake her head. Sadness slid in like an evening fog and smothered her rage. She drew a deep breath. Her tears softened. "I was only a child."

"You were."

"He did horrible things to me."

"He did."

She closed her eyes. Vile Edward Godwin grinned at her from behind her lids and she gasped, horrified. "I hate him," she realized.

"Oh?"

"I...I hate people who hurt children. I hate the people who hurt Sara. Who _beat _her and _raped_ her. They hurt her so terribly that she is permanently disabled. Did you know that? Did I tell you that she will never walk unassisted?"

"I did not," the doctor said quietly. "How is she coping?"

Ziva shrugged. "I do not know. I have not spent...much time with her lately."

"Mmm."

She nearly snarled. Damn Eli for taking Sara from her. "But I will later today."

"You are determined to keep her safe."

"Yes," she answered haughtily. "She is _fragile. _We need to be careful."

Dr. Loeb cocked her head. "Who keeps you safe, Ziva?"

She blinked. There were several answers to that question, all of them good. _Good_. Whole. Protective. Gibbs, Tony, Ayelet. Even little Sara, so furious and funny. "There are many people in my life," she began, stiff and overformal. "They are all...loyal. They have spent a lot of time, given up a lot of themselves...for me."

"These are the people who helped Ayelet care for you while you were healing?"

"Yes," she said. "They are."

The doctor put her pen down. "How did they help you?"

Ziva laced her fingers together. "They stated at my home. They prepared food I could eat," she said slowly. "They helped care for my injuries. They...helped me when I was anxious or upset. They...they were very kind. Generous."

"Hm."

She scowled. "What?"

"That's a lot of sacrifice."

Her cheeks burned. "And I have no way to repay them."

Dr. Loeb shifted in her chair. "You think they expect it, Ziva?"

"N-no," she stammered. "But it would be wrong if I just took and took and made no effort to reciprocate."

"I'm not interested in keeping score, but, if I remember correctly, you gave Sara a lot of your time and energy when she was first placed with Gibbs. Now that kind of give-and-take is not between co-workers or friends; it requires intimacy, compromise...love. That's more big stuff. Who are those people, Ziva?"

She swallowed noisily and tongued her splint again. Tony took her to the last appointment, and he would take her to the follow-up next week. Ayelet would prepare their meals. And Gibbs was quietly providing support while caring for Sara and her ever-growing needs. Eli would've punished her for such closeness. But Eli was dead.

"Who are they, Ziva? You can tell me. It's safe."

"They are...they are my family," she ventured.

"They are. They care for you, and you care for them. It's a balance."

Balance. Equilibrium. Something she'd been lacking lately, even in the barest physical sense. But her head was better now. Her eyes, her face, even her mouth was healing. She still liked someone to stay within arm's reach, though, especially in public. _Public_. Ayelet waited for her in the receiving room.

"Should I call her in?" the therapist asked softly, and Ziva had to blink. Was she reading her mind?

No. "Yes," her mouth said.

Doda Ayla was summoned. She sat next to Ziva on the loveseat and took her hand. "Hi, my baby," she whispered in Hebrew. "Are you ok?"

She only nodded. Dr. Loeb smiled. "We only have a few minutes left, but I invited you back because Ziva made tremendous progress this session and I wanted her to see that she has your support."

"Oh, yes," Doda sighed. "Of course. My husband and I are going to buy a property nearby for part-time use because we'd like to be closer to her."

"That's wonderful," she applauded. "When do you think this transaction will occur?"

Ayla looked at Ziva. "In a few weeks. We're still thinking about where and what kind of apartment we'd like. We're religious, so that will be a factor in our decisions."

"You'd like to be close to synagogues, kosher markets, those sorts of things?"

"Yes," Ayelet said firmly. "It is a balance between our business life and our personal life."

More balance. Ziva inched closer to her. "I can help you," she offered. "I have been to a few synagogues in my neighborhood. You can join as a part-time member if you'd like."

"You are such a good girl, my _Zivaleh_," she crooned. "Yes, I would love your help."

She blushed. Dr. Loeb only smiled. "I'm going to give you some homework. The first thing is just what you offered—help Ayelet investigate appropriate places to buy an apartment. The second you get to come up with yourself. What can you commit to?"

It takes her no time at all to decide. "I want to spend time with Sara. I have missed her. I want to help her, too."

The doctor nods her approval and takes a note. "Ok. Good work today, Ziva. Rest if you need to."

She rose and straightened her sweater. Ayelet urged her into her coat and scarf. "It snowed again," she said, and pushed the elevator call button. "Let's go home and have a hot meal. You must be starving."

. . . .

"Ziva? Zee-vah. _Zeeee-vah_. Wakey-wakey. Eggs and bac-ey."

She sniffed and sat up, confused. Her couch. Her living room. The thump and hum of the washer, and Tony leaning over the back of the couch. He stroked her hair away from her face.

"How ya doin?"

"Ok," she rasped. She was exhausted, actually, and wanted to go back to sleep, but he levered her off the cushions and scooted in behind.

"Missed you," he said in her ear. "Haven't had much time together lately."

She leaned against him sighed. "I am sorry. Things have been difficult."

"Yeah," he mused, toying with her hair again. It felt good. She put her heavy head on his big, broad chest and sighed again. Her eyelids drooped. _Why _was she so tired?

"Time is it?" she begged.

"Almost five. Ayelet said you slept all day."

Ziva shoved at him, pushing herself upright, kicking off the blanket. She was _done_ with that. "No," she spat.

Tony frowned. "_No_ what?"

"I should not have done that." He looked even more confused and she stood, wobbling a bit. _When_ would the stupid vertigo end? "Sleep all day, I mean," she amended. "I do not like to do that. It is a bad habit."

He took her hand. His felt big and rough. There was paint on his knuckles and a callus between his thumb and index finger. "It's ok," he said slowly. "It's fine. She said you worked your ass off in therapy this morning in therapy and you some rest. No one is upset."

She scowled at his casual attire. "Were you at work? Why are you dressed like that?"

He pulled her back down to sit with him. She went. He was so _warm_. "I cut out early to help Gibbs. Been puttin' in some serious OT lately, so it was all cool with Vance. I painted Bug's bedroom while she and Gibbs were at a doctor's appointment. Looks good, if I say so myself. Told him I'd help build a bed for her tomorrow night."

She closed her eyes. "She has a bed."

"Too high. She could fall. He got her a shorter one so she can get in and out herself."

Her heaviness increased. "She is disabled. Did you know that?"

"Yeah, Sara told me all about it. Gibbs took her to a wheelchair fitting-thing yesterday. Said she tried out a few demos and they were all a little too heavy for her. He's got some plan up his sleeve."

"Always," she sighed. "Where are they now?"

"There. He's working on some secret project."

"And Sara?"

"Playing."

"Mm." She closed her eyes. "I have not seen the new house."

He hugged her. She took in his painty, working-man smell and sighed. "Want to go now?" he asked.

She hesitated. "Is it cold outside?"

"It's _December_," he scoffed. "Of course it's cold outside. But you can bundle up and we'll drive over instead of walk."

"Ok," she agreed, and stood again. No dizziness. Good. Doda plucked her coat off the entryway hook and guided Ziva's arms through it. "Are you coming?"

"Of course," she scoffed. "I promised Gibbs I'd organize the kitchen."

Ziva huffed. Why was so much happening without her?

Tony winked and snugged the lapels of her coat. "C'mon. Gibbs promised pizza tonight."

The wind was frigid, but Gibbs' new house was warm and welcoming. They stamped their boots on a flattened cardboard carton that served as a temporary entry mat, and tossed their coats on a few wardrobe boxes. The whole first floor was open-concept and airy. Sara crowed, excited to see them. Ziva gaped, then grinned; Sara had adopted a funny, hopping crawl, and was motoring toward her as fast as she could.

"Zeeba!" she exclaimed.

She crouched. Sara leaned back precariously and reached for her. Ziva scooped her up. "Hello, sweet _shaifeleh_. You look very strong."

She hugged Ziva's neck tightly. "I know. I take medicine before I eat and it helps me get fatter."

She chuckled. "Doda told me. Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah." She hiked up her sweater. "Look at my belly. It's getting bigger. Daddy said that's good."

Ziva laughed aloud and rubbed her soft skin. She was noticeably sturdier, but certainly not_ fat_. There was a small puncture mark just above the fastener of her diaper. "What's this?"

Sara huffed and yanked her shirt back down. "I had a test today. They put a needle in me and do you know what? They _didn't count_. That isn't fair."

"That is not fair," Ziva agreed. "Your body is yours alone. They should ask before they touch you."

"It's private," Sara said gravely. "That's what Daddy said. He yelled at them."

"Good," she granted. "He was protecting you. That is his job."

She wiggled. "Put me down. I want to show you my house."

Ziva put her back on the floor. She scooted around on the shiny hard wood, pointing out the deck beyond the kitchen doors and the space where a dining table would go _so they could all eat together_. "Now let's go upstairs," she coaxed. "I can show you my room and your room."

She got both hands on the first riser before Gibbs jumped in. "No way, Sar. Let someone take you up."

She growled. "I can do it _myself!_"

"Nope."

"Ugh," she grunted, sitting down hard on her behind. "Zeeba, you take me?"

Her face was all sweetness and light. How did she flip that switch so fast? Ziva only smiled. "Of course I will."

She carried her up the wide staircase. There was no squeaky floorboard in the hallway. Sara pointed to the right and they went into her bedroom. It was smaller than the old one, but it would be brighter in daylight. Tony's paint job was beautiful—a cool teal green. Soft. Soothing. Ziva was proud of him.

"What a lovely room, _shaifeleh_. Your new bed and toys will look very nice in here."

She nodded proudly. "Yep. You just need to put my mezuzah. Daddy has it."

"I will do that this evening."

Sara nodded again and pointed. "Go in there. It's your room."

She veered right again from the hallway. "Her" room was painted a deep taupe. There were already curtains hung that matched the duvet she had at home. "Daddy and Tony want it to be just like yours," Sara informed her.

Ziva's chest ached—they wanted her space to be familiar. _Safe_. She had to swallow before she could speak. "That is lovely. They are very kind."

"Yeah," she agreed.

Gibbs came sniper-like up the stairs and slid his arm around Ziva's back. She didn't startle. "Did you show Ziva her gift, sweet pea?"

"Not yet," she shrugged. "Where is it?"

He opened the closet door and pulled out a double photo frame, pre-matted and ready to hang. "This is for you," he said softly, and flipped on the bright overhead lights.

She squinted. In the frame were two hand-drawn pictures. The first was of three stick figures—or maybe three walking gantries—in front of a brown house. There were purple clusters of grapes everywhere. Under the picture was Gibbs' blocky handwriting: _Romi and Ayelet (Mjas) David hereby promise to love Ziva Shlomit David forever_. _Witnesses: Leroy Jethro Gibbs and...purple scribble (Sara Elise Gibbs)._

The second was a drawing of all of them. Ziva recognized Tim's laptop and Abby's black pigtails, Gibbs' silver hair, Tony's wide grin, her dark eyes, and tiny Sara sitting in an equally-tiny wheelchair. She'd drawn it herself. Her own truth in pencil and crayon. She laughed. She cried. She put her hand over her mouth and did both at once. Gibbs gave her a gentle hug with one arm and held Sara with the other.

"Shhh, Zeeba," she cooed, patting her arm. "It's ok. You're ok. Shhh."

She snorted and laughed at herself. Ayelet poked her head in. "Zivaleh is crying? What for _this_ time?" She shushed softly, but Ziva shook her head and wiped her eyes.

"Did you see this?" she asked. "Sara made it. It is a—"

"I know. I had Gibbs add the middle name we would've given you."

She cried at that, too. A middle name. And Shlomit. _Peace_. "Thank you," she said through her tears. Was it enough? No. Never. But it was a start. "Thank you, Doda."

She clucked and waved her hand. "Ziva, it is no favor. I mean it and so does your old Dod Romi. Take a breath, please."

It was her turn to wave and cluck. "I am fine," she said confidently. She wiped her eyes and straightened her clothes. "Where shall we hang it?"

Sara fixed her with an incredulous look. "Over the _bed_, Zeeba. Daddy will put it for you."

Gibbs kissed Ziva's brow and handed Sara off to her. "Lemme get my tools."

He left and was back in only a moment to center and hang the frame above where the heavy, sleigh-frame bed would go. Everyone stepped back and sighed.

Ziva felt lighter than she had in months. Lighter than before Sara, even. Before quitting NCIS, before maybe even Somalia. She took a breath and listened to it whistle in her ears. It sounded full and resonant, like basses and cellos warming up before a symphony performance. She did it again and again until her head was clear and calm and her shoulders came down. She almost didn't hear Tony bellow up the stairs, _pizza's here!_ until Gibbs and Ayelet turned to leave and Sara wiggled impatiently in her arms.

"Let's _go_, Zeeba," she urged. "I wanna eat."

She carried her down the stairs. Tony had set up pizzas and paper plates on the island, but Gibbs beckoned from near the play mat. On it was a little cart made of a booster seat on a small platform. There were tiny casters on the front and fat, knobby, rubber tires on the back.

Sara gasped. "That's for _me_!" she crowed happily. "Put me down. _Please_."

Gibbs plopped her in the seat. Ziva was sure she'd tumble right out, but she didn't. Something about the pitch of the seat bottom, the pommel between her thighs, the little troughs for each of her skinny little legs...she was certain McGee had engineered it just for Sara.

She knew it, too, and zoomed away from them, only to stop, spin, and laugh. "I am _fast_, Daddy. You are never going to catch me again."

He smiled. "I don't know about that, kiddo."

She circled the room, then found her way to the kitchen, where Tony and Ayelet exclaimed happy over her new wheels. She spun again, showing off.

"Fastest Bug I ever knew," Tony said, mouth full. "Want a slice of pie?"

"Yeah. Plain, please."

Gibbs bent down to retrieve her, but Sara pulled back. Ziva bit back a grin; she'd never been so mobile in the time she'd been with them. Gibbs was in for it, she was sure.

"I want to eat right here," she complained.

"You'll drop your food," he contended.

Tony handed her a plate. The canted angle of her knees pushed her little middle out; she had a toddler's pot-belly for the first time ever. She balanced her plate between it and the pommel between her knees. "See?" she said, pointing. "I do things myself, Daddy."

"She is going to give you a run for your money," Ayelet murmured to Gibbs.

"Too late," he deadpanned.

She shook her head. "Just wait. She's bolder and bolder yet."

Sara held up her empty plate and licked at the sauce smeared on her cheeks. "Done. Are you done too, Zeeba?"

She wasn't, but eating pizza with a jaw splint was labor-intensive and she was tired. "Yes, _shaifeleh_. I am done. Would you like to hang your _mezuzah_ now?"

Ayelet smiled. "Very sweet, Zivaleh. The baby can use all the protection she can get."

Ziva frowned. Did Doda really not know? "She is Jewish, Ayla. She needs one."

Her aunt's face shifted into one of total surprise. "I had no _idea,"_ she exclaimed. "I didn't!" She put her hands on her hips. "But I should have. _Look_ at her—she is _obviously_ Jewish."

Gibbs turned away to hide his smirk. Tony snorted into his soda can. Ziva could only look on proudly. There was really nothing in Sara's appearance that indicated her religious background. Jews were all colors and sizes: some blonde and fair like Ayelet, others large, like Romi, and still others like Ziva, who favored her father—her _real _father—except for his size. "Yes, _obviously_," she agreed, only humoring her. "And this very obviously Jewish child needs a _mezuzah_ on her doorpost."

Gibbs gave her his hammer and the little rectangular box. "Don't bash up my woodwork," he warned, but his blue eyes were soft. This was _her _house, too, it meant. She bent down as he had to get Sara, but she backed up.

"Nope," she said easily. "I'll go to the steps. Meet me there, ok? Ok." She sped away, giggling.

Ziva caught up with her at the foot of the stairs. Sara shifted, trying to shimmy out of her seat, but her weaker left leg caught under the right and broke with a _pop_.

"I _broke_!" she squealed, and began to cry. "Daddy!"

Ziva dropped everything and delicately pulled Sara into her lap. "I am so sorry, _shaifeleh_. I should have been faster."

Gibbs was already there, cupping Sara's lower leg in his big hand. "Not your fault, Ziver." He palmed her curls away. "We going to the hospital now, sweet pea, or am I going to do a Daddy-cast and we'll go tomorrow?"

She sniffled and leaned against Ziva. "Tomorrow," she pouted. "But I get my paci."

Tony brought the "break box" of medical supplies. "How we doing this, Dr. Boss?"

"Stockinette, one-step splint, cotton roll, self-stick wrap. Give her a shot of painkillers, DiNozzo."

Ziva shushed and patted while they splinted her leg and gave her a dose of liquid Tramadol. Sara only whimpered and snuffled around the thumb in her mouth, which Ayelet replaced with the pacifier when they were done. "Oy," she murmured. "I don't like that she broke like that. It hurts a mother's heart."

Sara was heavier in Ziva's arms. "Her Daddy fixed it," she whispered. "She will be ok."

"I still wanna hang it up," she whined. "It's mine and I want it."

"Nope," Gibbs said immediately. "We're going back to Ziver's and you're going to bed."

She _did _cry then—big, wet, sobs of sadness rather than pain. "I want it!"

"Your Daddy says you need to go to bed," Ziva said in her ear. She kept her voice soft. "We can hang your _mezuzah_ tomorrow, _shaifeleh_. How about Tony and I take you home in the stroller?"

Gibbs gave her a silent, subtle nod of approval. The bundler would keep her warm; the motion would put her to sleep. Tony put the pizza in the refrigerator while she and Ayelet bundled up.

"I will meet you at home, Zivaleh," she said, and kissed both of their cheeks. "_Chazak u'baruch_, little one."

Ziva buckled her in. Tony grabbed his coat and then they were off into the cold evening. It was fully dark, but the streetlights cast a warm glow on the suburban street. The sidewalks were clear; it was easy to push the stroller.

"Stars," Sara mused.

Tony looked up. "Oh, yeah. The clouds cleared out. It's cold now, but maybe we'll see some sun tomorrow. Which would be great, because my tan is really fading."

Sara hummed and closed her eyes. Ziva smiled to herself and guided the stroller down another empty winter block. Yes, for now the clouds were gone. Perhaps, perhaps they would see the sun tomorrow.


	23. Gonna Miss You

**Wow, it has been a very long time. Life got in the way for a while, but here I am now and I'm happy for it. Thank you for your patience. Exits are located at the rear of the chapter.**

**Thanks: Amilyn, girleffect, Chemmie. You. For just being around.**

**. . . .**

_And all the secrets you keep _

_will be the things I never know._

_Doesn't matter either way;_

_I'll still miss you when you go._

_-Patty Griffin, "Gonna Miss You When You're Gone."_

. . . .

Tony blinked his bleary, weary eyes and unlocked Ziva's apartment. It was early—_too_ early—but he'd volunteered anyway to pick up Romi from the airport. Ziva wasn't cleared to drive yet. Tony thought it was un-family-like to make him take a car service. The drive out was miserable. The company on the return trip was not.

It was warm and dim inside. Romi put down his duffel and shed his enormous overcoat. He was a _big dude_, Tony thought, big as an NFL lineman and dense with farm muscle, but his shoulder-slapping guy-hug was gentle. "Ziva is sleeping well?" he whispered.

Tony kicked off his shoes. "Pretty well."

"And she's eating now? Ayelet said they removed that barbaric splint."

"Yeah. No steak yet, but she took down half a noodle kugel yesterday."

Romi unzipped a duffel bag and put two packages on the kitchen island. "Chocolates," he explained unnecessarily. "I had a layover in Paris. Is she still so afraid?"

Tony didn't want to talk about this. He only wanted to hunker down on the sofa and wait for daylight. "She's...ok," he said levelly. "There are good days and bad days."

He stood at the end of the sofa. His big body blotted out the stove light. "I feel terrible for leaving her."

Tony sat heavily and leaned his head back. He'd had enough guilt. "She's just happy you're here," he said as kindly as he could. "It's not even oh-five-hundred. Why don't you get a few hours of sleep?"

He nodded. "Ayelet is with Ziva?"

"Nope. Guest room."

Romi fidgeted. It was awkward for a man his size. "What time does Ziva usually wake?"

"She has to re-up the meds at oh-seven-hundred, but she's not like, verbal at that hour. Takes her a while to get with it. I'm usually gone by then. Work."

They fell silent. Romi moved toward the guest room, but there were footsteps and then Ziva said something so softly in Hebrew that goosebumps rose on Tony's arms. She padded quietly across the floor and stopped before Romi, blinking and hesitant in the low light.

"Zi?" he asked, but she didn't hear him.

Romi brushed one hand down her arm. She inched closer. He took her delicately in his plowman's arms and lowered his lips to her hair.

Tony slouched. This was _private_. He felt like an interloper.

"It's ok," Romi said in English.

He sat up. "Don't want to spoil the moment."

"You are family, too," he said kindly.

Tony peeked over the back of the sofa. Ziva peered back, her head pillowed on Romi's titanic chest. She smiled a little, and some of the knots in his shoulders began to unravel. He smiled back. "Didn't mean to wake you."

She lifted one shoulder. "It's fine."

Romi pulled back and grasped her by the shoulders. "Go back to sleep, Zivaleh. We will talk more in daylight. _B'seder_?"

"_B'seder_," she agreed softly, and he kissed both of her cheeks.

He went into the guest bedroom. Ziva tugged on Tony's shirt. "Come," she urged. "Lie with me."

He was up in a heartbeat. His hands found her waist. She led him into the bedroom, where they lay on the mattress and drew the duvet over both of them.

"I am sorry," she said once they were settled. "This has been so hard for you."

He yawned. "I've gotten up early before, Zi. Been up all night, in the rain, the mud..."

She shook her head irritably. "All of..._this_, Tony. My fa—Eli, Romi, Ayelet here for weeks and weeks, Gibbs and Sara. Work. It has all been so hard for you. Are you overwhelmed?"

Tony sighed. "I was," he admitted.

"I worry I am too much for you."

He pressed his nose to her hair. A long silence passed. "You are precious to me," he said slowly. "It was hard to watch you just..._fall apart_."

Her eyelashes wisped against his shirt. "You did not lose hope?"

Had he? "It was close," he admitted. "Especially the night I had to carry you to bed because you were losing it. Remember that?"

She hummed. "Yes. But I thought...something else was happening."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I know," he said. His voice was gravelly. Damn. He was giving it away. "I was afraid for a while."

"Of course you were," she agreed. "I was, too." She curled up and threw one leg over his. He rubbed her back. He could no longer feel her ribs through her t-shirt. "Do you think we can go forward, Tony?"

"Yes," he replied immediately.

She swallowed noisily. He brushed her hair back. "I may have bad days," she said. Her tone was formal, distant. "Dr. Loeb and I agree that I am not ready to be weaned off any medication yet,"

He nuzzled her. She was soft in his arms. Calm. "Stay the course," he agreed.

"What if," she began, but her voice broke. "What if I am never ok, Tony? Can you live with that?"

He thought about a lot of things in brief, bloody flashes. Sana'a. Dulles. Saleem. That dirty cell. Ziva's dead eyes. Her nightmares. "I think you have every right to not be ok."

She tilted her chin up and looked at him. The grey sunrise cast shadows under her eyes. "Can you live with that?"

Tony slid down so they were nose to nose. "Yes," he answered honestly. "Yes, I can."

"You will still marry me?"

"Yes."

"You still want to raise a family?"

"Yeah. I want us to have our own Bug."

He felt her brow furrow. "Sara?"

"Yeah," he said again. "I want one of those. She's cute. And hilarious."

"Raising a child with special needs is very difficult, Tony."

He shrugged. The pillows shifted. "I know. Hey, let's get through a year or two of just being old married people before we go there."

"Good idea," she whispered. He thought she fell asleep, but she rubbed his chest and pressed her nose to his. "I want to go to Israel for Passover."

He opened one eye. "You want to stay with Romi and Ayelet."

"Yes."

"Ok. Do we get to eat those big saltines?"

"Yes. You will get tired of them."

"Bet I won't."

She chuckled. "Bet you _will."_

He drew her closer yet. "I want more time with you." It felt like an order. He held his breath and waited.

She only brushed her fingers across his hair. "Ok," she said. "We need a date."

His boxers tightened. "Dinner and a movie?" _And maybe a little heavy petting?_

"You never did take me out for Provençal."

He exhaled. Damn Eli. "Then we're taking a mulligan. A do-over. Fougasse, bouillabaisse, calisson. Cigarettes in those tortoiseshell holders. Berets. _Trés chic_."

They laughed for a long time, until Ziva sobered and put her hand on his cheek. "Can we go back to Paris?"

"Yes," he breathed. He would go anywhere with her. "When? Honeymoon?"

"No, we're going to an exotic beach for our honeymoon. We will go to Paris with our children and teach them how to be essentially French."

He kissed her mouth. "Bringing up _bebè. _We can take Sara, too."

She shook her head. "Paris is not very wheelchair accessible."

"So? I'll carry her."

"What if she's eight, or ten, or twelve? Will she still want to be carried?"

"She'll grow by then, Zi," Tony huffed. "It's not like she's a dwarf."

"She is."

Crap. He was an idiot. "Oh. I didn't know."

"No one does. Gibbs is keeping it under his hair."

"Hat. That sucks. Is it because of her OI?"

"Yes. The physicians no longer think she has such a mild case. Short stature is common with more severe types."

He hummed and tried to picture her at fifteen. "How tall is she gonna get?"

Ziva walked her fingers up his arm. "They did some measurements of her long bones. I was there. They used these calipers—Sara said it was a dinosaur—and predicted she'll be between four-foot-six and four-foot-ten."

His heart panged a little, but he shrugged. "Ok, so she'll always be a peanut. I can carry her around Paris easily. The Bug and I will stroll along the Champs-Elysée, shopping for you at Gucci and Dolce&Gabbana. _Ooh, la là._"

"Where will I be while you are out spending so much money?" she teased.

"You'll be at a very Parisian park with our adorable-but-energetic DiNozzo Juniors. Marcel, Jean-Claude, François. They'll wear sailor suits. You'll be in one of those sexy belted shirtdresses." He purred like a tomcat.

"What if they are girls?"

"Celine, Dominique, Marie-Laure."

She smiled against his shirt. He liked this game. "What if I want them to have Hebrew names?"

"Leah, Rebecca, Esther, Solomon, Isaac, Joshua. Jésus. Hidalgo. Ringo. Whatever."

She made a small harrumph. "What if we choose to adopt and we do not get to pick our child's name?"

"Then we get what we get. We can still take them to Paris. Or Israel. Or Great Falls State Park."

She yawned. "All of this sounds lovely, but I want my date night first."

"Whatever you want," he said dumbly. Dumb, yes. Stupid with love. "I didn't let you sleep."

"It's ok. I would have slept through my alarm and ruined my schedule anyway." She glanced at the clock and pushed herself up. "I should get up now. You rest here for a little while. I can tell that you are tired."

He stretched. Yes, he was exhausted. Maybe a catnap would be ok. "Is Yaffa around? I need a snuggle-buddy."

"She is with Ayelet. They are fast friends now."

He snorted. His eyes were closing. "That's because of all the chicken schmaltz."

"Yes, but I am sure she still loves you."

"Cats don't love anyone," he slurred. Ziva's bed was swallowing him up.

"They love who they love. I love you."

"_Luvtoo_," he drawled, and crashed.

. . . .

Tony pulled the Velcro taut and fastened it with a flourish. There. Done. He'd changed a diaper and lived to tell about it. "How's that, Bug?" he asked.

She pulled her pants back up by herself. "Good. No pinching. Where's Zeeba?"

"Out finding an apartment with Doda Ayla and Dod Romi," he reminded gently. For the tenth time.

"Oh. Ok. When will they come back?"

"Soon. They're coming for lunch."

She rolled over and scooted back into her tiny wheelchair. "I don't want that spicy white stuff," she informed him. Her tiny face scrunched up. "That stuff is _yech_."

"I _know_," he agreed, but had no idea what she was talking about. She'd declared a lot of things to be _yech_. "Your dad said he has some chicken and sweet potatoes for you," he continued, but she was gone, playing again amidst her forest of toys. "I'll just watch some TV," he called, but she was babbling to her penguins.

"That will rot your brain," Ziva said in his ear, and he squelched a squeak of surprise.

"Didn't know you could still do that," he complained. "Find a place?"

"Yes, near a synagogue they joined. Walking distance to here and home. Did you survive your first hour of babysitting?"

He leaned back. She toyed with his hair and he shivered in delight. "I did. Changed her, too. I totally dig this childcare thing. Room for a big screen?"

She scoffed. "Only if you're going to install it for them."

She sat next to him and he threw an arm around her shoulders. "I'll get McCable Guy to do it. Where are they, anyway? I owe them a mazel tov."

"Yes, you do. They're picking u—"

"Zeeba! I didn't even hear you come in!" Sara zoomed over and barked Ziva's shins with the front of her chair. "Pick me up," she commanded, holding up both arms. "I want to see you."

Ziva lifted her out of her seat, mindful of the cast on her leg. "Hi, sweet _shaifeleh_. How are you today?"

"Good as long as I don't have to eat that _yechy_ white stuff."

She smiled. Tony got all warm inside. "Of course not. Did you go to school?"

"Yeah. My big chair didn't come yet but I played with Sophie. _She_ got _her_ chair and that's no fair."

"Who's Sophie?" he whispered.

"Her friend. She has a similar condition."

"Oh. You gonna have races, Bug?"

She scowled at him. "No. We're _friends_."

Gibbs banged through the front door with two big bags from the supermarket and Ayelet hot on his heels. He deposited everything on the kitchen island and swept his daughter into his arms. She giggled and snuggled up to him. "I missed you," she said sweetly.

"Missed you, too, sweet pea. Did Tony behave himself?"

She looked at him with that impish face. "Yes," she informed Gibbs seriously. "He did not throw a fit."

Gibbs smiled and rubbed their noses together. "Get out to the car, DiNozzo," he ordered. "Got ten more bags where those came from."

"On it, Boss," he said automatically, and got up without jostling Ziva. "Back in a flash," he said. She winked.

Romi met him on the porch with a half-dozen bags in each hand. "I've got it, Tony. Thank you." He stopped in the foyer, bags still hanging from his meat hook hands, and gaped openly at Sara and Ziva on the sofa.

Tony felt some strange ire rise in him. Hadn't he ever seen a special needs kid before? "Getting big, huh?" he prodded.

"Yes, but she is still..."

"She's a Little Person."

"She's tiny for her age."

"No, she's a _Little_ _Person._ She won't get very tall. Ever."

Romi looked at him, then Ayelet, and said something that sounded like _geh-MAH-dah_ and she nodded. "I did not know that," he said quietly. Something sad pressed down on his monumental shoulders. "Will she always need a wheelchair?"

Answering his questions made Tony feel brave and important. "We don't know yet. She's doing weight-bearing work in therapy, but isn't actually walking. But she crawls pretty well and she has that little cart that Gibbs made for her. And they ordered an _actual_ wheelchair, but it hasn't gotten here yet. It's custom."

Romi was still staring. Tony kinda wanted to shove him. "Is she happy?" he asked lowly.

He looked again and saw, maybe, what Romi saw—Sara's bell-shaped chest, the cast on her leg, the awkward, babyish way she climbed down from the sofa and into her chair. Ziva tickled her and she backed away, giggling.

"Yeah," he said. "She's happy."

Her wheels thundered across the floor. She came up before them and jerked to a stop. "Hi," she said shyly.

"Hi," Romi replied. "How are you, Saraleh?"

She blinked at him and cocked her head. "Good." She held up her arms again. "Can you pick me up? I wanna see you."

He lifted his grocery sacks. "Let me put these down and I will."

He joined Ayelet and Gibbs in the kitchen and Tony picked Sara up. She fixed him with _that_ expression. The weird, psychic-kid one. He tensed. "What, Buglet?"

"It's ok," she said softly.

"What's ok?"

She shook her head, eyes on his. "It's ok," she repeated.

"_What's_ ok, Bug? I don't get it."

He had no idea a five-year-old could roll her eyes, but Sara did, and huffed. "It's _ok_. Romi is _good_, Tony."

"Ok," he replied, feeling numb. Where did she come up with this stuff?

"He is," Ziva added. She'd been watching, he realized. "We...talked for a long time this morning while you slept." She stepped closer and made a tiny motion with her hands. "I forgive them, Tony. I know they did what they could."

He bounced the Bug on his hip. "Did you forgive yourself?"

Ziva looked down. "I'm working on it."

Guilt gnawed at him. Sara patted his shoulder. "It's ok," she whispered. "You're good, too."

He hugged her and breathed in her baby-scent. Shampoo, milk, her clean cotton sweater. "You're all right, Bug," he muttered, and she nodded with her head on his shoulder.

"Yeah."

Romi returned, kissed Ziva's head, and held his arms out for Sara. "May I have this now?"

Tony shifted her over. "You get tired of being held, Bug?"

"No," she answered honestly, and pinned Romi with the same look she'd given Tony. She squinted at him for a long moment, head tilted, fingers toying with the button at his collar. "_Abba_," she said finally, and looked at Ziva.

Tony heard Ziva suck in a breath. She turned and walked with measured steps into the kitchen. He followed. "It's true," he said honestly.

She wouldn't look at him. "I cannot think of it like that."

"So don't. But don't clam up and make us worry, either."

Ziva peered over her shoulder. Sara craned her neck and peered back, brows drawn in worry. Romi was trying to assuage her with a candy.

"None of this is fair," she lamented.

"I know it sucks, Zi. I _know_. We're here. We're safe. We have friends and family and a Bug on wheels. And the holidays are coming, which mean food and gifts. We're going forward, remember?" Her eyes wandered. She was drifting from him. He touched her elbow; it was warm beneath her sweater. "Hey," he said. "Where'd ya go?"

She blinked dreamily. They were in a corner of the kitchen, far from the activity; Gibbs and Ayelet were arranging take-out and paper plates. "Chanukah starts tonight."

"Do you have a menorah?"

She shook her head. "I have not celebrated in...a long time."

He hadn't let go of her arm. "Can we go buy one before tonight?"

She nodded. "After lunch. There is a Judaica store in Wheaton. I'm sure Dod and Doda would like to go, too."

He moved his hand from her arm to her back. "Should we take the Bug?"

Ziva shook her head. "It will be her naptime."

He shrugged and smiled. "She's Jewish. It would be an educational field trip. Gibbs might not mind."

"We'll see," she said vacantly, and put her hand on his chest. "Thank you."

He winked. "Of course."

. . . .

Chaim's One Stop Judaica Shop was tucked in a small strip mall. The display windows were crowded with books and yarmulkes, the shelves untidy, the floor strewn with boxes of inventory. Tony stepped over a carton of paperback _Mendel Finds a Mitzvah_ and cupped his hand over Sara's curls. He was glad he'd opted for the carrier; the place was in _no_ way wheelchair accessible. Plus it was cute to have her snuggled on his chest like a baby anteater.

"See anything you like, Bug?"

She eyed a display case of mezuzahs and jewelry. "I want a cookie."

"That's funny, because you just swore you were done with your lunch."

She rubbed her eye with a tiny fist. "I was full but now I'm empty again."

He swayed and patted her back. "Well we can talk to Ziva about that."

She craned her neck so hard he heard the tendons pop. "She's shopping."

"For what?"

"Candles."

He looked, too. Ziva and Ayelet were debating colored candles over white. "That could take a while," he warned.

She nodded and yawned. "Yeah."

He stroked her hair and swayed more, perusing books with titles like, _The Ma'amar of the Rebbe_ and _Transliterated Sim Shalom Prayerbook_. There were piles and piles of yarmulkes of all different colors and sizes. He chose a purple satin one and put it on her head, then found a mirror.

"A good winter color," he joked. "But you might want to try a size smaller."

Sara peered out from under it, eyes pale grey. She smiled. "I want one."

It couldn't hurt, could it? He pawed through a few bins and found one that was embroidered with flowers. "This one?"

She put it on. "Yeah. I like it. Can you buy it for me?"

"Sure, but let's make sure we're not making some Jewish faux-pas first, Bug."

She scrunched her face. "Ok," she said. There was some teenage disdain in her tone. How much longer before she was huffing and rolling her eyes?

Romi came out from a back room and put a slip of paper in his breast pocket. He saw the yarmulke on Sara's head and broke into a wide grin. "We have a scholar of Torah now? A _chachamit_? Beautiful. We will hold a lecture and you can deliver words of tremendous depth and wisdom."

She giggled and put her hand over her yarmulke. "Can I have this?"

He gave a small bow. "Of course. And this." He produced a child's menorah shaped like Noah's ark.

"Animals!" she exclaimed, brushing her fingertips over the faces of a lion and a zebra. "Thank you, Dod Romi."

"You're welcome," he boomed. "Anything else for my little _charaka_?"

"Candles," she answered lightly, looking around. She yawned and put her head on Tony's chest, still wearing the Bukharan yarmulke and clutching the menorah.

He stroked her hair. "My little Buglet."

Her eyes drifted. Romi chuckled and found a package of small candles on top of a stack of picture books. "She'll be asleep soon."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"Let's get Zivaleh and then we can take Sara home. I'm sure she'd like to nap in her own bed."

Tony waded back through the detritus and found Ziva studying a row of fat books, head cocked. She hugged a few to her chest like a schoolgirl. "Chagall?" she asked.

"Did he paint the flying fiddler?"

"Yes," she sighed. "Among other things. Should I buy it, or is it too cliché?"

He frowned. "Because you're both Jewish?"

"Yes. The obligatory coffee table book. Perhaps Chagall is too provincial."

"Not to me," he argued. "Buy it. I want it." Sara slumped in the carrier. He marveled a little at the domesticity of the scene—Tony, Ziva, a child. A bookstore on a cold afternoon. "Tevye the Milkman," he murmured.

She looked up. "What?"

"_Fiddler on the Roof_."

She nodded absently. "Based on a folk tale by Sholem Aleichem."

He warmed. "Do you have that?"

"Yes, at home."

"Read it to me someday."

She blinked up at him, fully present. "All right."

"Ziv'keh?" Ayelet called. She was standing at the counter with two heavy bags of new stuff. "Are you ready, _motek_?"

"Yes, Doda," she replied. Her voice was young and soft.

She went to the register with her armload of books and Tony paced a little, hoping to keep Sara asleep all the way back to her small bed in her small, cheerful room. He hummed the few bars he knew of _Hava Nagila_.

"How old?"

His head jerked up. Who the hell was that? "Excuse me?"

"How old is she?" an older woman asked. She looked to be about sixty, but her hair was a smooth, blonde bob. She adjusted her fashionable glasses. "Your little girl—how old is she?"

"Oh," he fumbled. "Uh, she's five."

She went agog. "_Five_? She _soooo teeeeny_."

He bristled. "She has special needs."

She drummed her manicured nails on Sara's cast. Its bulk was evident beneath her black cotton pants. "How did she get hurt?"

"She fell," he retorted, backing away. "Don't touch her. I don't know you."

The woman clucked, but not with derision—with kindness. "Understood. She got your wife's long eyelashes, lucky thing. Are you sending her to Berman next year?"

"Who?"

"Berman Hebrew Academy. My grandchildren go there. It's warm and wonderful. I'm sure she'd thrive."

He stumbled over a box of plastic noisemakers. "We, uh, haven't decided. Thanks, though. We'll look into it."

He tripped away, palming the top of Sara's head. Ziva met him at the exit. She was barely hiding a jester's grin and shoved open the door. A blast of cold, damp air greeted them. Sara grunted and hid her face.

"You think that was funny?" he burst, offended.

"Your _face_, Tony," she chortled. "It was so _dear_." She paused at the rear passenger-side door, laughing too hard to open it. "You were afraid of her."

He unbuckled the carrier and shifted Sara into his arms. "I was _not_. I just don't like people touching the Bug." He harrumphed and put Sara in her car seat before sitting next to her. "Stranger-danger, Zee-vah."

"She was no stranger," Ayelet said from the front seat. "She went to seminary in Israel with my cousin Galit. She's the principal of the school she recommended."

He gaped. "Is this some weird Israeli thing I don't understand—everyone knowing everyone?"

"Jewish geography," Romi said, navigating Georgia Avenue traffic. "Less than six degrees between us and any other Jew."

"Like Kevin Bacon?"

Ayelet turned and winked. "I enjoyed _Footloose_ as a much younger woman."

"_She's Having a Baby_?"

"That one, too, but _Flatliners_ made me uncomfortable. Death is not a game."

Tony shut his goy mouth. He glanced at Ziva. She was looking pointedly at Sara, her face pinched and pale, brows drawn low over her stormy eyes. She traced Sara's chin with her index finger and brushed a hair away from her eyes.

He put his hand over hers. "She's ok," he said quietly.

She shook him off without looking up. "I will not wake her."

He tried again; she let him graze his fingers over her wrist. Her right forearm was scarred and atrophied from so many injuries. Would she ever gain that muscle back? Maybe he'd write the grocery lists from now on. "You've come a long way, Ziva."

She looked up. Her gaze cleared a little. "I know," she agreed, and looked past him to the wet streets. "But there is still so far to go."

. . . .

Ziva had chosen a beautiful Moroccan-style menorah made of brass and stamped with a trellis and pomegranates. She watched the flames burn low while Tony stashed the dinner leftovers in the refrigerator and wiped down the countertops and started the dishwasher. She'd been quiet all day. He'd been steadfastly trying to draw her out.

"Good choice," he praised. "What do the pomegranates mean?"

She didn't hear him. She studied her reflection in the kitchen window and raised two fingers to prod the small scar at the corner of her left eye. It was smaller than her little fingernail but dark; a divot in the skin.

He touched her arm. "That will fade."

She jerked, surprised, and nodded. "I have cream for it. The plastic surgeon said it will help."

"I think you're beautiful."

That did it. She cracked a cheeky smile. "Of course you do." It faded fast, though, and she went back to staring at the menorah on the windowsill. "It is almost out," she mused.

"And we light again tomorrow and add another candle." _See?_ he wanted to prod. _Something to look forward to_.

"Yes," she sighed. "I am tired. I think I will read in bed for a while."

"I'll tuck you in," he announced.

She rolled her eyes. "Tony, please—"

"No arguments. Kiss your parents goodnight."

She shot him a look. Romi and Ayelet were snug on the sofa, sipping Riesling and watching a documentary about ocean life. Ziva stuck her head between them and asked silently for kisses. Romi whispered something in her good ear and she lingered for a moment before kissing his cheek and standing straight.

Tony grinned. "In to bed with you, Winkin."

She gave him a questioning frown but shambled off to the bedroom. She was sore. Her ribs gave her trouble in the mornings and evenings. He was extra gentle as he tugged up the duvet and stroked her hair. It was clean and silky.

"Who is Winkin?" she asked.

"Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod? It's a bedtime nursery rhyme."

She scowled. "Sounds like a tricycle crime syndicate."

"Heck's Angels," he commiserated. "My mother used to say it with me before bed."

She made a soft noise. "My mother and I said the bedtime Sh'ma."

He scoffed kindly. "At least one of us said our prayers. Do you miss her?"

"Yes. I'm sure you miss your mother, also. I'm sure Gibbs does, and Sara, and Abby. We are all motherless, Tony."

He sat sadly on the mattress. "Yeah, we are. But we're not alone in that. It helps, I think."

"Yes." They lapsed into silence. He traced her palm with his blunt fingers.

"They are leaving on Sunday."

"Yeah."

"I do not want them to go."

He squeezed her small hand. "You just got them back."

Ziva nestled into the pillow. He doubted she'd crack a book tonight. "Come for the Shabbat meal."

"Which one?"

"Both."

He gave her cheek a soft pat. "I shouldn't overeat. My yearly qualifications are coming up soon."

She shrugged, eyes closed. "Run an extra mile. Take Sara. You love her."

"I do."

"You were afraid of children before."

He kissed her sleepy mouth. "I was afraid of a lot of things. Night, Zee-vah. I'll be back after work."

She was already asleep. He crept out and left the door ajar.

Romi was waiting for him. "I have something for you," he whispered, though there was no need. Ziva could sleep through a marching band rehearsal. "It is a small gift considering all you have done for us, but I'd like you to have it."

He handed Tony a black box the size of an orange. Inside was an Omega Double Eagle Chrono—a watch that would cost him a month's paycheck_._ The rubber band was stamped at each end with some kind of eyeball. He ran his finger over it.

"You shouldn't have," he said. "This is entirely too much."

Romi shrugged. "_Too much_ for the man who loves my daughter? Who saved her life? Nonsense. It is never enough, Tony. That stamp in the band is a _nazar_. It will ward off the evil eye."

Tony was surprised by just how badly he wanted that watch. It was beautiful and practical and _awesome_. He handed it back, though, gut twisting. "I can't take this."

Ayelet's hand was warm and fast across the back of his head. She jabbed a thin finger at him. "You _can_ and you _will_, Tony. Do not offend us. Simply say _thank you_ and wear it. The _nazar_ will protect you the way you protect my Zivaleh."

He pried it from the box and slipped it around his wrist. It fit beautifully. The band was soft. It didn't pull the hairs on his arm. Romi nodded proudly. It_ was_ nice. "Thanks," he said awkwardly. His face was hot.

"You are welcome," the chorused.

Ayelet kissed his cheeks. "Go home. Sleep. Work. We will see you tomorrow for minute steaks and latkes."

"I love minute steaks," he sighed.

She laughed. "I know. Goodnight."

. . . .

"Doing ok so far?" Tony asked.

Ziva nodded and watched Romi and Ayelet complete their check-in at the ticket counter.

"Ok."

Their bags disappeared down the conveyor belt. Romi pocketed their boarding passes and turned around with tears in his eyes. "Well," he began. "I suppose we're off. We will see you at Pesach, Zivaleh?"

She nodded, head down. Tony automatically stepped closer. Human shield. "You'll call when you land?"

"Yes, as soon as we're on the ground," Ayelet said quickly. "And we'll call again once we're home. And we will video chat once a week, Zivi, so you will barely have time to miss us."

Romi folded Ziva into his arms. She clung like a child and sniffled, face buried in his coat. "My sweet girl," he rumbled. "I love you very much and I will count the days until Pesach. Ok?"

She nodded and pulled away, reaching for Ayelet. "Now, now, Zivi," she sighed. "I know it's difficult, but you are very brave. Give your old Doda a kiss and go home to your books. You have a lot of studying to do."

"I know," Ziva said, straightening. "I cannot repay you for this."

Ayelet made a dismissive noise. "Unnecessary. You are our daughter. These are all the things we wanted to do all along. Now take a deep breath and go home. I will call you when we land at Ben Gurion."

Romi kissed Ziva's head one last time. "To my right Michael, to my left Gabriel, in front of me Uriel, behind me Rafael, and the presence of Hashem above my head. _Bracha v'hatzlacha_, Ziv'keh. I love you."

They disappeared down the terminal, blending in with the crowd at the security checkpoint. Ziva stood for a long time, staring, hands lingering near her face, until Tony touched her shoulder.

"Come back," he said softly.

He led her to the car and made sure she buckled her safety belt. She was gone again, eyes wandering, breath ragged. He didn't turn the key in the ignition. "You want to go with them?"

She looked up, eyes wild. "What?"

"I can make it happen. My badge is in the glove box. I can put you on that plane."

She gasped. He held his breath. _Please say no_.

"No," she finally sighed. "This is my home. I cannot just...no, Tony."

He started the engine. "Then let's go home right now and buy our tickets for Passover. We'll email our itinerary so it's waiting for them when they get home."

She nodded. "Good idea."

His cell rang as he backed out of the space. He answered it and it went directly to the car audio via Bluetooth. "DiNozzo," he greeted.

"What?" Sara demanded. Her tiny voice was huge through the car speakers.

"Oh hey, Bug. How are ya?"

She wasted no time. "Come play with me, Tony. I got LEGO."

He smirked. "I can't today, Buglet. Ziva needs me." _Playing the Ziver card_, Gibbs would say. It worked.

"Oh," she said seriously. "So come tomorrow."

"It's a work day."

"No fair. I need to build this boat."

"No one knows more about that than your dad. Ask him, and I'll help you set sail in the tub one night. I gotta go now, though, because I'm driving."

"Ok. Don't wreck. Bye." She hung up.

Ziva sighed sadly. "She needs friends."

"She has some."

"Child-friends."

He pulled the car up to a red light and looked at her. "You know those things take time, Zi."

She blinked at him, eyes wide and dark, and reached for his hand. "Yes, they do."


End file.
